


Caveat Venditor

by patxaran



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Bodyguard, CONTENT TAGS GENERAL:, CONTENT WARNING TAGS:, Canon Compliant, Cheadle Yorkshire - Freeform, Drinking, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hunter Website Barman, Hunters don’t know how to date...or do they?, HxHBB18, Isaac Netero - Freeform, Kurapika answer your phone, Kurapika is constantly discussed but doesn’t show up until the very end, Leorio is everyone’s favorite hunter, Leroute - Freeform, Lippo - Freeform, M/M, Manga Spoilers, Nen lessons, Neon Nostrade - Freeform, Plot, Post-Chairman Election Arc, Pre-Dark Continent Arc, SIDE CHARACTER TAGS:, Senritsu - Freeform, Slow Burn, Smoking, Swearing, Various original supporting characters - Freeform, Zepile's plumicorn eyebrows, black market, dark content arc spoilers, do you have any coffee 'cuz Mizai will get the milk himself, flesh collectors are so damn evil, hunter association politics, hunters are weird and no-one wants to work with them, hxhbb, kurta eyes, leopika pining, leorio is lonely, long fic, mafia, mild body horror connected to flesh collecting, mild violence, nen bullshit i made up, nen is scary, okay well canon compliant enoughhhh, scarlet eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-05-25 02:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 148,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14967017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patxaran/pseuds/patxaran
Summary: After Leorio's suggestion for a new Rat proves nigh impossible to contact by conventional means, Mizaistom Nana is forced to track Kurapika down through his dealings in the black market trade of collectable human body parts. Assisting Mizaistom is Zepile, another one of Leorio's genius suggestions, whose slick salesmanship, black market know-how, and criminal past prove as useful as they are a constant bone of contention between him and the famed “conscience of the Zodiacs”.





	1. The Mission

**Author's Note:**

> You won't need to come to me ready to argue about how much sense this ship does or doesn't make. I'm not expecting it to be popular or even a thing in this fandom. The truth of the matter is, I just always wanted to write more about Mizai and also Zepile, and in a moment of revelation, I saw that I could kill two birds with one stone. 
> 
> **For all my leopika fans who trust me and clicked on this fic to give it a chance:** Leorio is in this fic a good amount, and there are a lot of references to background leopika. So like, you have that. (I tagged it less shippy with " &" instead of "/" though, because I'm not sure it's shippy enough to count as outright leopika?)
> 
>  **For everyone who really enjoyed it when I got super meta and/or went on and on about human body part collecting in my other fics:** _You are in luck, my friends._ This fic has got you covered in a big way.
> 
> In sum, this fic mostly explores how "normal" people might interact with Hunters. I've always wanted to write about the normal, everyday sort of people living in the Hunter x Hunter world, and Zepile is great for that! Mix in my fave leopika trope of "third wheel Mizai", and you've got yourself...this fic apparently. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Cheadle Yorkshire turned down Mizaistom Nana’s silent offer of true dairy creamer as he stood beside her at the coffee bar in the Hunter Association Headquarters’ ninth floor break room. He pressed again to make sure she was certain, reminded her that he’d brought this particular brand along with him from home, so, it’d be much higher quality than the chalky, thin tasting non-dairy creamer that break room coffee bars were usually stocked with. Still, Cheadle wasn’t interested. Mizaistom suppressed a sigh as he watched her knock a heaping spoonful of the powdered creamer into her coffee instead. 

Dogs, he had to remind himself, weren’t known for being choosy when it came to quality food.

“He hasn’t said he absolutely won’t join if we can’t get Kurapika to replace Pariston,” said Cheadle as she mixed the sugar and creamer into her coffee using an unorthodox back and forth motion scientifically proven to dissolve granules into hot liquid at a more efficient rate. She hovered around the end of the counter and waited as Mizaistom methodically opened and emptied six tiny pots of his precious liquid creamer from home into his own cup. 

“However,” continued Cheadle, “he’s implied he’ll be disinclined to invest so many years into the journey if it ends up that Kurapika won’t join us.”

“That’s selfish of him,” said Mizaistom. He cupped the spent pots of creamer in his hands and leaned over to toss them into a nearby trash receptacle, then grabbed a napkin to wipe away the dribbles on his fingers. “But also, it’s not so surprising when you think about it. If there’s anything we know about Leorio Paladiknight at the moment, it’s that he’s selfish.”

Mizaistom threw away the napkins and followed Cheadle across the empty break room. He sat opposite her at a narrow table beside the window. Nine stories below, the ugly side of autumn was in full swing. Everything was dry and desolate, dead in anticipation of winter. Mizaistom stirred his milky cup of coffee absentmindedly while considering the orderly rows of bare limbed trees lining the sidewalk. One could see so much further down into the street now. It all looked bigger, more open, more exposed. The sight of it soothed him with its utter lack of mystery.

Cheadle cleared her throat, disrupting the natural silence Mizaistom was prone to falling into without warning. Miziatom inclined his head, inviting her to speak.

“It’s safer if we take his suggestion,” she said. “Better for us that we find this Kurapika and persuade him to join the Zodiacs to replace Pariston. It’s the only way to guarantee that Leorio will offer his support by joining us.”

“His support?” asked Mizaistom with a slow, skeptical frown. “Surely his sway over the members of the Association has waned by now. I can’t say I didn’t respect his determination to save his friend during the elections, the same as everyone else. He endeared himself to the entire organization. But, hasn’t his moment passed?”

“It hasn’t,” Cheadle assured him. “Leorio’s no less popular now than he was over a month ago when he punched Ging Freecss in the face. That sort of thing has staying power, especially with Hunters. Pariston and Ging might’ve involved Leorio and brought him to prominence through their own political machinations, but his natural charisma has kept him on top.”

“Even now?” asked Mizaistom. At the same time, he was feeling somewhat better for his own inexplicable and yet persistent admiration for Leorio, as well as the profound conviction he held that Leorio would’ve made a more than adequate chairman for the Hunter Association, despite having come from nowhere and having had such a selfish, single-minded goal as his only platform in what one could only generously refer to as his “campaign”. Mizaistom approved of Leorio’s particular brand of stubborn resolve. A person so certain and open about what he wanted was the type of person who'd prove nearly impossible for a sly manipulator like Pariston to ever completely own, and for Mizaistom, the ideal result was always the one where Pariston couldn’t win.

In the end, of course, that hadn’t been the case in the elections. Pariston had indeed won. The knowledge of his victory still unnerved Mizaistom, still kept him up late into the night staring into the darkness and asking himself why, to what end? What terrible thing had Pariston gained in those few seconds as chairman that were far more sinister than the supposed thrill of having outwitted every single one of his fellow Zodiacs? Even now, in full daylight beside the window, a warm drink in his hand and the heat of a floor vent dry roasting his heels, the question sent a chill down Mizaistom’s spine.

“The votes for Leorio,” said Cheadle, sitting up straighter now, as if she needed to sell this, “even those we gave him, were the votes of the segment of the Hunter Association outside Pariston’s control. To me, those votes represent the true will of the Association when it’s allowed to think for itself. Hence, if we have Leorio’s support, we can count on having the Association’s support.”

“I suppose it’s true he’s something of a celebrity now,” agreed Mizaistom. He rested his head in his hand and took a short sip of coffee. Watching the liquid in the cup roll back and forth as he set it down, he changed the subject back to what he knew Cheadle had really called him there to discuss. “So, have you got any idea where to find this Kurapika?”

Cheadle shoulders hunched forward as she shook her head no. It embarrassed her to admit the truth, that with all her newly endowed powers as chairman of the Hunter Association, she hadn’t been able to locate a single stray Hunter.

“He doesn’t answer the emails that have been sent to his Association account,” she explained. “There’s a person in HR who can track these kinds of things, and according to her, Kurapika doesn’t even open his inbox. He’s even deactivated notifications for when he logs into the Hunter website, which I wasn’t aware was a thing we let Hunters do. It goes without saying that he didn’t attended the elections, because even if Cluck’s messenger had reached him, there'd have been no-one forcing him to read the message anyway. In truth, he only ever logs onto the site to search or buy information from the database. In short, he's more or less one of those Hunters for whom the entire Association might as well not even exist. We’re just a means to an end for him, nothing more.”

“A means to what end?” asked Mizaistom warily. He was distrustful of the less group oriented Hunters in the Association. They were always the ones getting into the kind of trouble that eventually involved Mizaistom himself, either as an attorney defending them in court, or as an investigator tracking them down.

“He’s a Blacklist Hunter, Mizai. You know how they can be.”

Mizaistom knew it well. Blacklist Hunters, while often not too different from Crime Hunters in their general motivations and skill sets, had the highest risk of any other type of Hunter of succumbing to criminal behavior. Mizaistom believed it had a lot to do with the time they spent stalking their prey through the fetid underbelly of society. It was normal for them to cross the line between what constituted legal, sanctioned action, and what was little more than outright abuse of their Hunter status and privileges. Occasionally, they ended up finding the wrong side of the law to be more lucrative, or they found it better able to satisfy their desire to catch and kill and assert their dominance over the lesser criminals surrounding them. Compared to Crime Hunters, average Blacklist Hunters were often little more than bullies spoiling for fights and the thrill of the chase.

“Does he hunt criminals, or just bounties?” asked Mizaistom. He struggled not to judge this Kurapika person too harshly right away, although deep down he was already considering whether trading in Pariston for one of the countless, poorly esteemed hounds of the judicial system was really going to be much of an improvement.

“He’s not listed anywhere as having collected a bounty from any law agencies. Our own database simply lists him as an employee of the Nostrade Family, subsidiary of the Ritz Clan.”

Mizaistom sighed. That Kurapika wasn’t hunting heads for profit was reassuring. That he was in bed with the mafia, on the other hand, absolutely wasn’t.

“Have you sent anyone around to the Nostrade Family’s headquarters to contact him?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?” asked Mizaistom. The reason had to be more than Cheadle not having found the time. He was proven correct when she lowered her voice and leaned in, covering her mouth with her hand by resting her head on it in the same stance Mizaistom had already taken. Around a sip of coffee, she told him.

“Because if anyone in the Association loyal to Pariston gets wind of where I’m searching for a new Rat, they might move to find Kurapika first. Then, they’ll either bring him to their side, or give him a very good incentive to reject our offer. If for some reason he doesn’t agree to either option, then, there’s a high chance we’ll never find him no matter where we look.”

Mizaistom’s face darkened, and the easy, loose grip he’d had on his coffee tightened along with his jaw. His expression was sour enough to curdle the six pots of creamer in his mug with a single, withering glance.

“Vanished,” he said, echoing the word dully as it appeared in his mind.

“It might be a possibility,” agreed Cheadle, glancing to the side, though both she and Mizaistom had been monitoring the vacant break room and most of the empty floor around it with their En since they’d arrived. It was one of Pariston’s little legacies from his time as vice chairmen that Cheadle didn’t trust having such a top-secret conversation with Mizaistom in the chairman’s office. It seemed more than natural that Pariston might still be holding a theoretical ear to that particular wall.

“I want you to find him,” said Cheadle at last. “You have the team and the resources for the job, and no-one will think twice about you and your company taking an interest in a Hunter working for a criminal organization.”

“Yes, but unfortunately the Ritz Clan operates in a region where my security company rarely does business. I’ll need a much better reason than ‘just because’ to mobilize my people. Also, bear in mind I’m not a Blacklist Hunter. I don’t chase after criminals.”

“But you’re the only one I can trust, Mizai,” said Cheadle, not pleading but telling him this as an obvious fact. “I haven’t been chairman long enough to get a feel for who I can depend on, so, I’m forced to fall back on old allies, the people I’ve always relied on. In addition to that, as a member of the Zodiacs, you’re somewhat obligated to assist me in running the Association, and right now running the Association comes down to garnering support for the Dark Continent expedition.”

“You estimate Leorio’s influence over the Association to be that high?”

“Of course I do. I believe it. I wouldn’t have given him all my votes in the election or offered to be his advisor if he won if I didn’t believe he was worth backing, and others agreed.”

“What I remember is you wanted to defeat Pariston, same as all of us. You would’ve given your votes to anyone who had a chance of defeating him.”

“Perhaps I would have,” admitted Cheadle. She lowered the hand propping up her face and began to rotate her coffee cup thoughtfully on the table. “But at the same time, I felt he deserved it,” she said, the firmness of her voice reminiscent of the conviction with which she’d persuaded her supporters to cast their votes for Leorio during the elections. “Leorio would’ve made an excellent chairman for us, not just one better than Pariston, but a good choice overall. The moment I saw him running to his friend Gon from the stage, I realized there was so much more to him than crude speeches and a lucky punch. I think I realized at that moment what the whole rest of the Association not distracted by politics or paid off by Pariston had already realized. Leorio was a solid choice.”

“And, for now, he’s a solid choice to replace Ging,” said Mizaistom. “Except we have to replace Pariston with a mafia lackey first.”

Cheadle wasn’t disheartened by Mizaistom’s attitude. She was used to him always seeing the worst and harping on it. “I’m sure Leorio had a reason for suggesting Kurapika,” she said. “You’ll have to go to him for details to track Kurapika down. You’ll be able to ask him more about it then.”

“I’ll be sure to. I’m curious myself to hear why he’d suggest such a person to join us. In fact, I’m curious how a med student even has connections to the mafia.”

“He said Kurapika’s an old friend.”

“I suspect there’s more to it than that. You don’t sign up a friend for such a dangerous mission.”

“I couldn’t have him go into detail over the phone.”

"Over the phone?"

"Yes. I called him between his classes."

"You had his schedule?"

"His school provided me with it."

"How did you convince them to do that?."

"There was no time to waste."

"And then you made the call? The same day?"

There was a pause. The cup in Cheadle’s hands ceased rotating. She sighed.

"What are you getting at, Mizai?"

“Have you considered that maybe this recommendation of Leorio's has been an indirect way of turning you down?”

Cheadle pursed her lips. “What do you mean?” 

“What I mean is that people don’t like to use absolutes like 'yes' or 'no' when put on the spot, but in your case, you’re incredibly forward when you make requests of people you don't know, and you have a bad habit of putting those people on the spot immediately. Leorio might’ve felt you were forcing his hand one way or the other, which is understandable. Sometimes you’re like that even with me, but you and I are on more equal footing, so, I can always decline. A Rookie Hunter, however, barely over twenty and still in school, being asked by the sitting chairman of the Hunter Association to drop everything and go on a mission to the Dark Continent…well, that’s somewhat different.”

Cheadle sighed again. She couldn’t lie to Mizaistom, especially not when she believed his accusations were poorly founded and unfair.

“I was only speeding things along,” she argued, “not trying to force him….”

“But you went over his head, didn’t you?”

“That wasn’t my intention,” she said, slow and deliberate, forcing Mizaistom to listen and wait as she considered her words. Though during a trial Mizaistom was perfectly capable of refraining from too many leading questions, outside the courtroom he didn’t hold back. Cheadle was close to Mizaistom as both a friend and colleague, but she still despised the position such unfair rhetoric put her in.

“I asked permission from his professors and arranged an alternative course of study for him under my tutelage while on our mission,” she explained. “That might’ve been going over his head a bit, _yes_ , but it wasn’t unreasonable.”

“And to be more efficient, you told him all about it in the same breath you asked him to join the Zodiacs.”

“I wanted to give him an incentive to agree, to know that things could be arranged if he accepted the offer.”

“Yes, and normally, so much thinking ahead is fine. But for you, you put too much value in efficiency, in pre-emptive strikes to whatever problems might arise, and while it’s an effective way of thinking when you work in medical science, it’s not a great framework for how to interact with people.”

“I want to be upfront and transparent as a leader, Mizai. It’s important that people have all the facts.”

“All the facts, yes, but not all at once. In the case of Leorio, you frontloaded him with information, and it backed him in a corner. Luckily for him, he was smart enough to find a way to wriggle out of it.”

“I was covering all the bases, offering him all the pertinent information he might need in order to facilitate a timely decision.”

Mizaistom shook his head as he lifted his cup of coffee to his lips. Before taking a sip, he said, “Yes. But, you didn’t get a timely decision.” Cheadle's jaw clenched as she waited. “What you got,” said Mizaistom, “was a condition we find this guy Kurapika, or else Leorio might be ‘disinclined’ to join the Zodiacs.”

Mizaistom drank down half the cup of coffee while it was still hot, enjoying the warmth it filled him with in contrast to the pre-wintery scene of the street below. Cheadle across from him neglected her own cup. It was there only as a pretext and a prop, unwanted unless it could provide a good pause or distraction at times when Mizaistom's personality was starting to make him more insufferable than even Cheadle could handle.

“Maybe you’re right,” admitted Cheadle. “Maybe he thinks we’ll realize finding Kurapika is too much of a hassle. Maybe he knows for sure Kurapika will say no. This could be an indirect way of turning me down, just as you suggested. It’s selfish, causes us to go through a lot of trouble, and in the end, he could already know the outcome. Maybe I should be looking somewhere else for a new Boar. Maybe a lot of things about this situation don’t work and won’t, but this is the direction I want to go in. I want new people, people unaffiliated with any internal Association politics, those who haven’t already picked sides. Leorio ticks all the boxes of an ideal candidate to join the Zodiacs, and as far as I can see, so does Kurapika. Therefore, I’ll do what I must to convince Leorio to join, even if I have to bully him into it. I want him as the new Boar, and I will make him the new Boar. I’m a Hunter. I will get what I want.”

Mizaistom almost smiled. Earnestness appealed to him. With his En already activated, he could feel the subtle change in Cheadle’s aura accentuating the resolve in her words and her determination to act in accordance with them.

“It’s true this might be a futile direction to go in,” said Mizaistom. Cheadle frowned slightly. “But, if he strongly recommends that his friend Kurapika joins us, then, don’t worry. You have me here to track Kurapika down. He’s a Blacklist Hunter, and I’ve worked with that type before. Once you know what they’re looking for, they’re pretty easy to draw out. I don’t think it’ll take long.”

“So, you’ll do it? For certain?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent,” said Cheadle. “Gaining two new members who are close to each other might even provide a safeguard against them feeling alone and pressured to pick a side between us and Beyond and...whatever Pariston or Ging might be up to now. On such short notice, this is the best possible choice. I believe that much absolutely.”

“I can’t argue against it, so I might as well believe it, too,” said Mizaistom. This was saying a lot. Mizaistom could argue practically anything if given a reason and was known to be tenacious to the point of total obstinacy once he’d made up his mind. It was why he tried not to make up his mind too quickly on matters, knowing how difficult it would be afterwards to change it.

For this reason, as Mizaistom finished his coffee and Cheadle arranged for him to get into contact with Leorio, he fought hard against establishing his own conclusions about Kurapika and who that person was too early. He promised Cheadle again that locating Kurapika and convincing him to join the Zodiacs shouldn’t take long. If he knew anything about Blacklist Hunters, then, well…but he trailed off before finishing the sentence. Sternly, he reminded himself that he shouldn’t judge Kurapika, even if he was a Blacklist Hunter, at least not yet. At least not until he’d gathered more evidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was written for the [Hunter x Hunter Big Bang 2018 on tumblr](https://hxhbb18.tumblr.com). Two artists have drawn for it, so, check out their work! (The ichiman links go to my own tumblr reblogs, since ichiman is no longer on tumblr now, unfortunately.)
> 
> [Art by gildedillumination](http://gildedillumination.tumblr.com/post/175327420859/hxhbb18-hxhbb-2018-entries-for-misc-6-by). The first, main piece is colorful, and really exemplary of the first few chapters of the fic with Mizaistom's thoughts. The rest are Zepile sketches. This will not spoil the fic for you at all.
> 
> [First art by ichiman.](https://patxaran.tumblr.com/post/175347560410/ichiman-its-hunter-x-hunter-big-bang-2018) This is art has the vibe of the whole fic, with the setting loosely adapted from the scene were Mizaistom and Zepile meet. This will not spoil the fic much, if at all.
> 
> [Second art by ichiman.](https://patxaran.tumblr.com/post/175346839895/ichiman-its-hunter-x-hunter-big-bang-2018) This is of a scene later in the fic where Zepile meets Linsen. It's not a big spoiler, since it's just a location and a reaction.
> 
> Thanks to the artists for such terrific work! I hope all the readers enjoy it as much as I have. (This is very short, but I will have a dedicated thank-you section when the fic is over. I didn't want to bog down the beginning with too many notes.)


	2. Leorio Paladiknight

Cheadle’s hope that Mizaistom would be able to find out more about Kurapika than she’d been able to had been optimistic, but not unreasonable. The Nostrade Clan had recently diversified into private security, meaning Kurapika and Mizaistom were in the same business. This hadn’t surprised Mizaistom in the slightest, as it was yet another part of the natural overlap of interests between Crime and Blacklist Hunters, particularly those with an entrepreneurial bent. As a matter of fact, Mizaistom occasionally employed Blacklist Hunters as a means to an end, though it was never full-time, and he made sure to never rely too heavily on specific individuals. He didn’t want to develop too much of a familiar rapport, or worse, a near partnership. Although Blacklist Hunters were useful to have at his disposal, the fundamental difference between their aims and his own would inevitably destroy any working relationship built between them. Mizaistom sought justice and to uphold the word of the law. Blacklist Hunters, on the other hand, sought only to further their own gain.

A subordinate of Kurapika’s had answered Mizaistom’s call where he’d introduced himself and his company and asked if the Nostrade team was interested in taking over a few security contracts Mizaistom’s company had been offered in their area. The subordinate had agreed to run it by management, but when Mizaistom had asked to speak to Kurapika himself to work out the details, the subordinate had told him in no uncertain terms that this would be impossible. Most business inquiries never went higher than Kurapika’s right-hand man, Linsen, and there was no guarantee Mizaistom would even get that far if he insisted on speaking to a higher authority. If Kurapika wanted to speak to Mizaistom, Kurapika would contact him himself. As a bit of personal advice, however, the subordinate had informed Mizaistom that, though it was theoretically possible Kurapika might call him back, the subordinate wouldn’t bet much on it

Mizaistom had made another effort soon after the first call failed, this time calling as a potential client under a false name. He’d made the list of security requirements for the job he was hiring for as stringent as possible, ensuring it’d be the sort of case only a Hunter-level agent could take on. As predicted, the manager he’d been connected to after a long series of transfers had informed him, bluntly, that he might be better off submitting his request to the Hunter Association, since very few in the Nostrade Family were qualified to handle the job. If [Mizaistom] wished, he could go ahead and submit the request to the Nostrades anyway, but there was a high chance it’d be turned down soon after. 

Mizaistom had said he understood the Nostrade company’s trepidation, thanked the manager for his advice, and hung up, no more closer to Kurapika than he’d been an hour before when the call had started.

“Good afternoon, Leorio. I’m Mizaistom Nana. We met during the Chairman Elections in August. Do you have a minute?”

Leorio, who was unwrapping a sandwich on a bench outside his last class, stared up at Mizaistom, stunned. His everyday life as a student and his Hunter status hardly crossed over—especially not on the shaded strip of sidewalk where he stopped on Wednesdays to scarf down a quick sandwich before the forty-five minute commute back to his apartment.

“Uh, I mean, sure, yeah,” said Leorio, moving his bag off the bench beside him. “Have a seat. I’m just having a bite right now, but I don’t have any afternoon lectures, so, I’m free.”

“In that case, I’d like you to come with me,” said Mizaistom. He removed his hand from his pocket and indicated a waiting car further down the block. “Chairman Cheadle Yorkshire sent me. We have some things to discuss.”

“Did you find Kurapika?” asked Leorio, eyes wide. “Shit, that was fast. What the hell is he up to?”

“We should talk about that in the car,” said Mizaistom. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your lunch, but I have to insist on it.”

“Oh yeah, sorry. One sec.”

Leorio sloppily re-wrapped the sandwich and squeezed it back into a container that shut after a bit of force with a reluctant snap. He gathered up his bag and jacket and hurried after Mizaistom, who was already turning around and signaling to his driver to start the car. Leorio accepted the door Mizaistom held open for him. Tucking his bag under his arm, he scrambled down the seat, all the way to the opposite window. Mizaistom quirked his head in curious surprise, but tactfully refrained from pointing out that he’d been planning to just go around and enter the car from the street.

“I came here to speak with you about your friend, Kurapika,” said Mizaistom after they’d settled into their seats and the car began to pull away from the curb. “We’ve located him, more or less, but he’s impossible to contact directly. I’ll need to know more about him, to see if I can approach him using some other angle.”

“I know how that feels,” said Leorio. He was rummaging through his bag again. Mizaistom assumed it must be for the sandwich.

“If you’re hungry,” suggested Mizaistom, “we can get you something to eat. I’d assumed so late in the afternoon you’d have already eaten, but if you haven’t, one of the professional organizations I’m a member of has a building downtown where we can speak privately, and where you can order something. I don’t like when my clients are distracted by fatigue or hunger, since they tend to rush and become foggy headed. Comfortable clients relay pertinent information much more efficiently.”

“I’m your client?” asked Leorio, scoffing at the thought. “Who’s paying you? Not me, I hope. Certified Crime Hunters are definitely out of my price range.”

“I’m representing the interests of the Hunter Association,” said Mizaistom. “I’m not being paid. The chairman assigned me the mission to find your friend, since that’s the condition you gave her that would get you to join the Zodiacs. Therefore, transitively, I am also working for you.”

“I never said I wouldn’t join,” said Leorio. He seemed genuinely confused that Mizaistom had somehow got that impression. “I said I’d just be happier if there were a familiar face around, if the two new members at least knew each other. Also, Kurapika’s incredibly skilled. He’s smart, too. I think the whole Zodiac thing will work for him.”

“I’m more interested in it working for us, the Zodiacs, a little, as well.”

Leorio waved a hand. “It will, it will,” he promised. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t recommend just anyone. Kurapika's the best Hunter I know.”

“And just how many Hunters would you say you know?”

Leorio furrowed his brow and didn’t answer.

The building downtown that Mizaistom had mentioned was a place Leorio already knew by reputation as one of a handful of private clubs whose exclusive membership included wealthy professionals and city elite. Leorio had never been inside, he told Mizaistom as the club came into view, for obvious reasons. When Mizaistom didn't seem to understand what these obvious reasons could be, Leorio explained that he went so far as to snub the place openly, muttering to himself it was nothing but “rich people’s bullshit” whenever he had to pass by it on his way to the central train station. That stuffy Mizaistom was a member wasn’t all that shocking. He didn't blame Mizaistom for it, not really. He just wasn't surprised.

“Swanky digs,” said Leorio as he entered the opulent, wood furnished office with its own small law library that Mizaistom had arranged as an impromptu interview room. Mizaistom cringed at the low, ironic whistle that followed Leorio’s pronouncement, and invited him to take a seat at a small desk.

“All these books and nothing to read,” said Leorio. He’d stopped for a second to look over the titles on a nearby shelf before taking a seat. He'd found them all to be nothing but boring legal gibberish.

“I’d probably say the same about your own bookshelf, assuming it’s all medical textbooks and lecture notes,” said Mizaistom.

“That’s fair,” agreed Leorio. “To each their own. But, first things first, though: I’m starving. If I’d caught the bus, I’d already be home having my actual lunch right about now.”

Mizaistom acknowledged this with a nod and took out his phone to call the club’s chef and arrange a lunch service to the fifth floor study. Across from him, Leorio silently mouthed the word “study” in echo, as though, for the first time in his life, reconciling where he was currently sitting with a term he’d only ever seen before in print. Mizaistom was certain Leorio was also mentally repeating the word “swanky” in the same ironic, up and down voice he’d exclaimed it a moment ago.

“So, you’re one of those Hunters who lives it up, then, aren’t you?” asked Leorio after Mizaistom had hung up the phone. “I should’ve guessed. You’re too sedate. You act with that kind of cool confidence, like you’ve got money to back you up at a moment’s notice. The kind of guy who walks into a room and knows he owns it.”

“I don’t own this building,” said Mizaistom. “None of the things here are mine. I’m only granted access as a member.”

“Oh, so then every member gets to order the head chef around?”

“No. That’s a level of authority my accomplishments have granted me as a Two-star Pro Hunter.”

“And what exactly do you hunt? Municipal office? I think half the city council are members here, too. Or well, they were. Do they kick you out if you’re convicted of corruption and sent to jail?”

“They certainly do,” said Mizaistom. His tone implied he knew something about it firsthand. In accordance, the mocking grin on Leorio’s face shifted to a complicit smile. His eyes flitted over Mizaistom, reevaluating him briefly.

“Okay, so then, what do you actually do?” asked Leorio. “I’m curious, since I guess you’re working for me now.”

“I’m a Crime Hunter,” said Mizaistom. “So, I specialize in crime, both in uncovering it and prosecuting offenders. I’m a lawyer originally, but my interest in criminal cases led me to become a private investigator, as well. Now, I own and operate my own private security firm.”

“So, what’s all this?” asked Leorio, motioning around the room. “Is this how we treat our lawyers in the Hunter Association? The most top quality accomodations?”

“Not necessarily,” said Mizaistom. “While being a member of the Hunter Association is certainly the optimum choice, there are still many private and regional institutions one can join to further one’s own career. In my case, I’m a Hunter, but very few of my staff are, so, I can’t always rely on the Association to obtain assignments. If you’re interested in medicine yourself, you should also look into networking beyond the Association to obtain support and a larger client base, which will grant you access to even greater resources.”

“I’ll do what I have to when the time comes,” said Leorio, “but I’m not aiming for…this kind of thing.” He frowned at the wooden knob at the end of his chair’s armrest, examining the face of the bird carved into it with the tips of his fingers. “I don’t plan to be involved with this sort of exclusivity, surrounding myself with the ‘right’ people like some fancy director of a famous hospital, the kind of guy who shows patients the door if they can’t pay. I won’t have time for rubbing elbows with politicians and the wealthy, because I’m going to be busy helping my patients, not getting rich off them. I’m just going to be a doctor, and that’s it.”

Leorio’s earnest belief in such an idealistic dream drew a small smile from Mizaistom, even as he promptly reprimanded Leorio for his narrow vision. “It won’t be so simple,” he said. “You’re not ‘just’ going to be a doctor, and you know that. You’re going to become the best doctor you or anyone else has ever known. If you’ve already become a Hunter, that sort of thing goes without saying.”

Leorio turned red, embarrassed and annoyed at Mizaistom’s unasked for parental treatment. “Of course I’ll be the best,” he snapped, “but for the sake of my future patients, not for myself, and definitely not as a high-price accessory for rich people. But, maybe some fancy lawyer wouldn’t get that. Lawyers live in the pockets of the rich.”

This accusation wasn't new to Mizaistom. He sighed and crossed his arms. “You know, it’s unsightly,” he said, “a Hunter going on about money so much.” Leorio glared daggers and gritted his teeth, but knew better than to challenge a Two-star Hunter to a fight. “As a professional Hunter, you’ll ideally learn to think of money as a background detail, a factor to consider when sizing up a situation, and a tool to utilize to achieve your aims. After all, the rich are people, the entire world is human, and fixing anything permanently in our painfully human world requires more than well-intentioned charity work.”

Leorio had started to speak over Mizaistom, insisting that he knew all of this already, that he wasn’t an idiot, but Mizaistom didn’t allow him to gain a foothold.

“You’ll need power to get things done,” said Mizaistom. Leorio, interrupted and ignored, rolled his eyes at how obvious such a conclusion was and started tapping his fingers impatiently on the desk as Mizaistom went on. “You’re in a position to gain a lot of power in the near future, whether you realize that or not.”

Leorio looked away and then back. It wasn't something he liked to think about, the full breadth of his newfound status in the Hunter Association. He could hardly believe it, much less accept it. Mizaistom didn't think this was the responsible choice, that one would squander one's power and influence just because it didn't match up with how they viewed themselves. The selfishness and arrogance of such behavior was more than Mizaistom could stand..

“Currently,” said Mizaistom, “you have the support of every voting member in the Hunter Association who chose you as their top choice for chairmen in August. Your fellow Hunters don’t decide such things lightly, no matter what shallow opinion you might have of us. If you’re somehow thinking your success in the elections was a fluke, it wasn't. The sitting chairman herself backed you. So, you need to hurry up and accept what it is your supporters see in you, as well as the responsibilities that come with your status, both within the Hunter Association and the world beyond.”

The furrow between Leorio’s brows didn’t smooth. “What’s this about?” he asked. “Why are you getting onto me, anyway? I’m still a student. It’s too early for me to consider all those things. Gon himself told everyone that I have to become a doctor first and foremost. I don’t see what all that has to really do with me yet.”

“It’s not too early at all,” said Mizaistom. “You need to think about it now, because you’re being asked to join the Zodiacs now, not in five years, not at some undetermined date in the future when you’ll maybe feel like it. You’re being asked  _ now,  _ because you have influence over the Association  _ now.  _ So,  _ now,  _ you have to consider it.”

“Look. I never said I wouldn’t join,” said Leorio. “I said that—”

Mizaistom cut him off by lifting a hand. “Listen, first. While I’m looking for your friend, you need to consider this position in the Zodiacs very seriously. Reflect. Decide. Get ready. Because I promise, I’ll find Kurapika, and after I find him, I’m not going to accept another delay. You will have to join outright, or not. It’ll be your choice, and it’ll be absolute.”

Leorio wasn't left with time to answer. As Mizaistom finished speaking, a large, family-sized sample of the full lunch buffet arrived, wheeled in along with a set of three small tea tables to contain it. Normally, Leorio would’ve either grown wide-eyed in appreciation of the spread or else sneered at the pompous formality with which it was all laid out. Right now, however, all he did was watch with agitated disinterest, his appetite having evaporated into nothing after Mizaistom’s criticism.

“Now, eat,” said Mizaistom as he went to pour himself a coffee from the carafe on the last table with the deserts. Begrudgingly, Leorio got up to fill a plate.

“You’re only having coffee?” asked Leorio, wrinkling his nose when he saw Mizaistom was already sitting back down with his legs crossed in a wide armchair, supporting a cup and saucer on his knee.

“I’ve eaten.”

Leorio glanced back at the tables of food, only able to think about what a tremendous waste it was. “You’re really fine with just a coffee?” he asked again. Mizaistom nodded, and Leorio reluctantly went to sit.

“May I ask you some questions while you’re eating, or would you rather wait?” asked Mizaistom. The click of Mizaistom’s spoon as he stirred his cup punctuated his words with a condescending ring. Trying not to lose his temper at such an insignificant detail, Leorio gritted his teeth and ignored it.

“Go ahead and shoot,” grunted Leorio between hasty bites of tasteless food. Mizaistom set his coffee on the nearby side table and slipped a small notebook out of his coat pocket.

“Alright," he began. "Is Kurapika’s appearance current with his photograph on the Hunter website, or has he undergone any modifications in the past two years?”

Leorio paused in his chewing to think. It’d never occurred to him that Kurapika might’ve changed how he looked since they’d last met.

“I haven’t really seen him in like year, but I think he’d be the same.”

“And it’s still true that he works for the Nostrade family?”

“Yes. Last I heard he was a bodyguard for them.”

“And when was the last time you were in contact with Kurapika?”

“April.”

“Does Kurapika have any family?”

“No. He was…orphaned as a kid.”

“Are you in contact with any of Kurapika’s work associates?”

“Yes. One. A woman named Senritsu. She’s another bodyguard.”

“Are you acquainted with his employer?”

“No. Not at all.”

“How did you and Kurapika meet?”

“We took the Hunter Exam together.”

“Did Kurapika ever tell you what he was hunting?”

“Yes.”

“…And what is he hunting?”

“Criminals. He wanted to be a Blacklist Hunter.”

“What class of criminal is Kurapika interested in capturing, if you know?”

“A-Class.”

“Good. Can you confirm that last September, in York Shin, Kurapika went up against the Phantom Troupe and attempted to capture one of their members?”

“He did. So did Gon and Killua and I. The three of us entered a conditional auction hosted by the mafia, and it turned into a hunt for the Troupe. Kurapika got involved with his own work as a bodyguard. His employer was threatened.”

“My report on the incidents in York Shin tells me that the Nostrade family captured a Troupe member who later went missing. He’s assumed to have been killed by someone in the mafia, considering the retaliation the Troupe enacted outside the underground auction site later. However, a bounty was never claimed on that Troupe member. Do you know if Kurapika was involved through his work with the Nostrade family?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know about all that at the time, so, I never asked.”

“Do you believe Kurapika was after the Troupe for his own reasons, as the lack of a claim on the bounty suggests?”

“I don’t know if he had anything to do with the Troupe member that went missing. The whole mafia was after the Troupe before they realized who they were. Once they realized it, they rescinded the bounties in the conditional auction.”

“The Nostrade daughter was reportedly kidnapped by the Troupe, though some reports claim she merely ran away from her bodyguards. Did the Nostrade family have a history with the Phantom Troupe before the auctions that would’ve motivated the Troupe to single the family out?”

“I didn’t ask Kurapika anything about what was going on in the mafia. Gon and Killua got kidnapped twice while we were hunting the Troupe ourselves, though. The second time, Kurapika and Senritsu helped me get them back.”

“How did you get your friends back?”

“Kurapika captured their leader, and we did an exchange.”

It took a few seconds for Leorio to realize that the sudden pause in Mizaistom’s questioning was unnatural. He looked up from his plate and saw Mizaistom frowning down at the paper he’d been jotting his notes onto. There was something incredulous in his expression, but mostly he looked baffled.

“He captured the leader of the Phantom Troupe by himself?” asked Mizaistom slowly. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Well, we helped. He wasn’t totally alone.”

“And the Troupe complied with the exchange?”

“Yes. I told you Kurapika’s very good. He’s a great recommendation, okay? He’s smart, he’s quick, and he can go toe-to-toe with the Phantom Troupe and not die. In fact, he came out ahead if you ask me.”

“What exactly did he come out ahead in?”

Leorio became flustered. “Ah, shit. I mean, like, he got what he wanted at virtually no cost. Our friends didn’t have a scratch.”

Mizaistom’s face darkened with immediate suspicion. He set down his pen and looked at Leorio squarely.

“There’s something you’re not telling me, Leorio, isn’t there?”

“I’m telling you everything you need to know.”

“Are you sure?”

Leorio tried to return to his food but knew he was done attempting to eat anything. With a heavy sigh, he lowered his fork and pushed the plate away. He looked over at the door, as if searching for someone to take his plate for him, though he already knew no-one would be there. Mizaistom probably had the whole place sealed off, nothing going in or out without him knowing it, secure.

Regardless, Leorio still didn’t trust him.

“I’m not going to spill Kurapika’s secrets to some guy I barely know.”

“Leorio. I need to know how he operates, what motivates him. I need a way to reach him. So, tell me, what is his history with the Phantom Troupe?”

“That’s something I absolutely cannot tell you.”

“Did they kill his parents? Is that how he was orphaned? Is he after them for revenge?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“How old was he when he was orphaned?”

“He was a kid.”

“Leorio,” said Mizaistom warningly. “The Phantom Troupe has murdered hundreds of people, many of those families, children, and innocent bystanders. It’s too many to search through all of them. If Kurapika is hunting them down, I want to know why. It might provide me with a way to reach him if I know what he wants.”

“I can’t tell you. It’s dangerous.”

“I’m on the side of the law. The side you can trust.”

“How’s that supposed to change my mind? The law won’t touch the Phantom Troupe. Not even the mafia will go near them. They do whatever they want, and no-one does anything.”

“Trust me. I know how that feels. I’m a Crime Hunter. This sort of thing is a daily frustration of mine.”

“I still can’t tell you anything about Kurapika that I don’t believe he’d tell you himself.”

Mizaistom gripped the pen in his hand tightly. “I don’t have time to track the history of every crime committed by the Phantom Troupe in addition to hunting for your friend Kurapika. I’m going to have to request that you tell me more.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Please, reconsider it. I promise, you can trust me.”

Leorio crossed his arms and leaned over the desk. He thought for a moment, staring down at the grain of the wood disappearing beneath his abandoned plate. He grumble a little to himself as he deliberated before finally, uncertainly, making a suggestion.

“I mentioned Senritsu,” he said. Mizaistom nodded. “Maybe you should talk to her? She works with Kurapika a lot. She might be able to get you in contact with him, though I doubt it. She can’t even get him to contact _me_ , and I’m his friend. At the very least, though, she can decide better than I can if you can be trusted.”

“That’s fine for now,” said Mizaistom. “Better than nothing. I want you to know I’m working with you here, so I’ll certainly meet her. Put us in contact, and I’ll head over to where she is as soon as possible.”

“Okay,” said Leorio as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “But a word of advice: Don’t give her a hard time. You can’t lie to her, and you can’t hide things from her. She’ll know. That’s all I can say. She’ll definitely know. So, just tell her the truth.”

Mizaistom nodded, assuring Leorio that he would, and Leorio dialed Senritsu’s number.


	3. Investigation

Senritsu didn’t look like a mafia prince’s friend and closest counsel. She was warm and kind and had an inexhaustible well of soothing energy that emanated from within her and out across the narrow space of the office where she’d arranged to meet Mizaistom alone. Mizaistom was surprised at how serene she was despite looking as if she’d been sick for a very long time and might at that very moment be in considerable pain. Perhaps she was the sort of person who was made softer and gentler through adversity. If her friendship with Leorio was any indication, that could easily be true.

“As a Hunter, doesn’t it bother you to be working in the underworld?” asked Mizaistom out of his own undeniable curiosity once the interview started. “It could give the impression you’re a criminal.”

“What I hunt for can only be found in the underworld,” said Senritsu. If the question offended her or made her uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. “It’s the same for any Hunter I’ve ever met, in any crime family I’ve ever worked with. We’re not here to be criminals; we’re here to find something. Many of the greatest and rarest treasures known to humankind are bought and sold on the black market every day.”

“They’re also some of the most illegal.”

Senritsu agreed with a quick, professional nod and a knowing look. “I didn't get the impression you were here to do crack down on my affiliations with the criminal underworld,” she said. “What do you want, Mr. Nana?”

Mizaistom straightened a bit in his seat. “I’m here on behalf of Leorio Paladiknight,” he said. “I’m searching for his friend, Kurapika. Leorio’s concerned about him. They haven’t spoken in nearly a year.”

“Is that really why you’re looking for Kurapika?”

“Yes.”

“And Leorio’s the one who hired you…himself?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying to me.”

Mizaistom sucked in a small, sharp, but mostly imperceptible breath.

“And now you’ve just confirmed it.”

Things had just gone downhill for Mizaistom at an alarming rate. There wasn’t much of anything he could say. He'd never been above deception, though he preferred to withhold the truth rather than lie outright. No-one else had ever caught on to him this quickly, or else they'd never been as upfront about it as Senritsu was. With a faint, placid smile on her lips, Senritsu watched him struggle to decided his next move. She was waiting for something; Mizaistom wasn’t sure what. Did she expect him to come out with the full truth now? If so, she could keep on waiting.

“I’m not at liberty to disclose the full nature of the investigation I’m being compelled to conduct, but, Leorio is indeed part of the reason I’m here,” said Mizaistom. He lowered the hand he’d been using to rest his chin on so casually, back when he'd thought the interview with Senritsu would be simple. He threw up his guard too late, not giving away a single stray thought or emotion on his face. Across from him, Senritsu’s own patient expression hardly changed.

“I can tell when you’re lying, but I can’t read your mind,” she said. “Would you permit me to ask you a few questions?”

Ironically, though so much of Mizaistom’s work involved interviewing witnesses and suspects, he greatly disliked being put in the position of having to answer another person’s questions himself. It felt too much like he was in the wrong and had something to account for. In this instance, that was partly true. He’d lost the initiative to Senritsu the moment she’d called him out for lying to her, and now, he had no choice but to submit, or else he’d risk the meeting being cancelled with no guarantee of securing a second.

Hesitatingly, Mizaistom nodded, granting Senritsu permission. She smiled in approval before becoming far more serious than she had been before. The patient smile was gone, replaced with a look of mild curiosity and attention. She was preparing herself to take in every detail of Mizaistom's responses to her questions and read through each and every one of his potential lies.

“Is Leorio in any danger?”

“You spoke to him on the phone to arrange this meeting. Did he seem like he was in danger to you?”

“Is Leorio in any danger he doesn’t know about?”

Mizaistom thought of Pariston and his paid agents still at work within the Hunter Association, polluting it with their corruption and indiscernible purpose. He thought of eighteen Hunters going missing in the past three years, and Pariston’s shrug, his ingratiating smile, and his poorly feigned obliviousness to what possibly could’ve happened to any of them except for a run of exceptionally bad luck.

“No.”

“Again. That’s not the truth.”

“I have personal suspicions, not evidence,” admitted Mizaistom as he suppressed a sigh of frustration. “There’s zero proof Leorio’s in any danger whatsoever.”

“That’s the only true thing you’ve said, and it means nothing, because you still think he might be in danger.”

As she accused him, Mizaistom sensed Senritsu’s trust in him slipping further out of reach. He was failing at the sole purpose of this entire interview, and yet, all he could do was try to persuade her to trust him anyway, even if she knew for a fact he might lie to her. Knowing why a person was lying could often prove more useful than extracting the full truth at any cost and ruining all hope of cooperation between the questioner and the liar evading them.

“Whatever you’re reading in me," said Mizaistom, "if you’re using some Nen ability that allows you to sense deception, you must be seeing my own inner conflict, my own personal biases that I’m forced to combat in order to remain objective. It’s a hazard of my occupation. In matters of law and order, one must strive to remain objective, although it’s against human nature to do so.”

“You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Senritsu sighed. “Lawyers and politicians are the worst to question” she said, sounding tired and disappointed, “because they openly withhold the truth from you to the point that everything they say comes across as a lie. They’re always calculating how much to give you and will never, under any normal circumstances, admit all that they know.”

“As a potential lead in my investigation, you aren’t privy to everything I’d know.”

“Yes, but without absolute truth or absolute lies, I can’t get a proper read on you and your intentions, and therefore, I’m disinclined to trust you and will refuse to help you in any way with locating Kurapika.”

“But you know I’m working for Leorio. You know he trusts me.”

“Leorio trusts everyone. He’s quick to see the bad in the world, but won’t believe it in individuals standing right in front of him.”

“But I’m trying to help him.”

“And there’s a lie. That’s an absolute lie. Whoever you’re helping, first and foremost, it’s not Leorio.”

Mizaistom gritted his teeth. Being called a liar constantly and with no way to defend himself infuriated him as much as it scared him. Senritsu had to be using some Nen ability, some trick, and yet he couldn’t sense her using her aura in any overt way. She simply knew. She looked at him, read through what he said, and knew.

“You talk about your inability to trust me,” he said, succumbing to frustration, “but how do you imagine I’m supposed to trust you? We’ve never met. We’ve never worked together. Leorio trusts you, but like you said, he trusts everyone. If his trust in me is not enough to compel you to work with me, then, it’s not enough to compel me to give you the full details of my investigation. All you need to know is that Leorio’s asked us to find Kurapika. Any information you could give me on locating Kurapika would be appreciated. If you wish to remain silent on the matter, then this interview has ended.”

Mizaistom pushed back his chair and stood with his hands pressed flat against the table between them. He stared Senritsu down, trying to intimidate her, but she only frowned up at him as if he were a disappointing child and shook her head.

“You’ve failed,” she said. “If you insist, you can go. I’m sorry I couldn’t be much help.”

Mizaistom turn to leave, too riled up to offer a bitter apology for having wasted her time as well as his own.

“One thing,” said Senritsu when Mizaistom was at the door. He turned back, but not all the way. He suspected whatever she had to say wouldn’t be especially helpful to him if it were something quick enough for her to address on his way out. “If you do find Kurapika at some point, you’d better be prepared to tell him everything, because he’ll know you’re lying to him, too, and he’s not nearly as nice as about it as I am.”

“Of course I will,” said Mizaistom coldly. “He’s entitled to more of the truth than you are.”

“More or all? Because he’ll demand to know everything.”

“He’ll know what he needs to.”

Senritsu’s face fell, the frown giving way to true sorrow over something she was too tired conceal. Mizaistom, who could only see her as a hindrance and an adversary at that moment, was taken aback by such a sudden display honest emotion. She was standing firmly in his path to completing his mission, yes, but she was still kind and good. Mizaistom has seen that since the first moment. Leorio had told him that even if Senritsu had to play a tougher role in the underworld, her true self was fundamentally gentle, and she empathized quickly with others. She was also fiercely loyal to her friends and comrades. At the moment, she thought she was doing what was best for Kurapika and protecting him. Mizaistom wasn’t sure she was wrong.

“I hope Leorio finds Kurapika,” she said with a sigh. “I don’t know you, and I can’t trust you, but I hope that Leorio finds Kurapika. I promised Leorio I’d keep an eye on Kurapika for him, but…Kurapika needs someone he’ll listen to. I think he needs someone like Leorio. He doesn't listen to me.”

Forgetting his previous show of temper, Mizaistom took a small step back inside the room. “Is Kurapika in some kind of trouble?” he asked. Senritsu looked up at him, her eyes narrowed. She was surprised.

“You don’t know,” she said, as if she didn't fully believe what her senses were telling her. “You mean you’re hunting Kurapika, and you don’t know?”

“Don’t know what?” asked Mizaistom. Obviously, when it came to Kurapika, there was a lot he didn't know. That was why he was here. That was his entire reason for meeting Senritsu in the first place.

Senritsu stared at Mizaistom even longer. “Anything,” she said. “You don’t know anything.”

“If you’d maybe tell me….”

“It’s not my place. If Leorio didn’t trust you with that information, then, I definitely won’t tell you. In fact, I doubt how much Leorio actually trusts you. What’s his reason to find Kurapika? The reason he’s given you?”

“He just…suggested it.”

“You’ll have to find it out on your own, then," said Senritsu, sensing another half-truth in Mizaistom's answer. "It’s a shame, really. I've realized how earnest you are. Your concern for Kurapika just now was sincere. But, if you haven’t grasped the extent of what Leorio’s not telling you...? Well, never mind. I could tell you exactly where Kurapika is, but Kurapika has a lot of enemies, and perhaps you’ll lead them to him unawares. You should already know that people in Kurapika’s position don’t make themselves impossible to find because they’re shy. You have no idea what Kurapika is up against.”

“I know Leorio is leaving a lot out. At least tell me the nature of the information I don’t have. I need a hint to get me started.”

"A hint?"

"Anything. Anything at all."

“You have a collection of names, and that’s it. Leorio, Nostrade, Kurapika, Senritsu. You’ll need a lot more than that to find Kurapika himself or figure out what he's doing.”

“I know he’s been hunting the Phantom Troupe.”

“But if you don’t know why, then that’s just another name you have.”

Rooted in place and clenching his jaw, Mizaistom came close to falling into another one of his protracted silences right there in the open doorway. He hadn’t delved too deeply on his own into why exactly Kurapika would go after the Phantom Troupe. He'd entertained the theory that it might be a personal reason, but with no concrete leads, he couldn’t commit to such a significant source of motivation so early in the investigation. Even if it were true, even if some vendetta against the Phantom Troupe did drive Kurapika on, there was no guarantee Kurapika’s hunt for the Phantom Troupe was connected to his current hunt in the criminal underworld, and it was Kurapika's current hunt Mizaistom needed to know in order to track him down. He wasn’t about to capture the Phantom Troupe to use them as bait to draw Kurapika out. He’d rather the Zodiacs depart for the Dark Continent minus a Rat (and possibly a Boar), than get himself killed at the hands of master thieves and murderers on a hunch that they were one of Kurapika's key motivations.

“Thank you for your assistance,” said Mizaistom before the pause between him and Senritsu became strained. He nodded to her respectfully, his attitude towards her entirely altered from what it’d been when he’d first stormed to the door to leave moments ago. “I’ve left my card with your people in case there’s anything else you wish to contact me for in the future. Thank you for your time.”

“Good luck,” said Senritsu. She offered him a small smile and wished him a good day as well. Mizaistom returned the sentiment.

In a few minutes, Mizaistom had left the Nostrade Estate and was headed for a satellite office of the Hunter Association in nearby Baleno City to resume his investigation. He couldn’t put off looking into Kurapika’s connection to the Phantom Troupe now, though it was hard for him to shake his opinion that hunting criminals was simply what Blacklist Hunters did for no special reason. They went after ridiculous bounties for the thrill, setting higher and higher stakes where the Phantom Troupe was among the highest. Only a few of the Troupe’s members had ever been taken down, and absolutely zero had ever been brought to justice. In the dangerous game of hunting criminals for sport, they were a prize more valuable than any other, since the price more often than not ended up being the Hunter’s own life.

The bounty for the Troupe member who’d disappeared in York Shin, however, had never been claimed. If Mizaistom was correct and this disappearance had to do with Kurapika, then he knew whatever Kurapika wanted from hunting the Troupe, it wasn’t their bounties or the thrill of the chase. It must be the revenge angle, then. It had to be personal. 

Mizaistom sighed. Vendettas were always messy. With Hunters and murderous thieves involved, the danger and risk escalated dramatically. Perhaps, he thought wearily, it was time to consider if the new Rat that Leorio had suggested was really worth all the trouble.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The file hit Mizaistom’s virtual desk with a heavy thud, enough to send the cup of pens he couldn’t use or interact with flying and clattering onto the floor. The Hunter website barman, currently dressed in a wig and black robes, beamed at him with an eternal smile.

“Is this all the data from the 287th Hunter Exam?” asked Mizaistom, not too pleased. “Seems unusually thick.”

“There was a nearly unprecedented number of rookies passing that year.”

“How many?”

“Five out of the seven.”

“That  _ is _ a lot,” muttered Mizaistom. He checked the numbers and names of those who’d passed, among them Leorio and his precious friend Gon, Ging’s son.

“Give me everything on Rookie #404,” he said. The barman-turned-barrister took the file and stepped away off-screen. Almost as quickly, he returned with a smaller handful of papers and placed them more gently on the desk. As Mizaistom looked through them, the barman bent down and collected the pens that had rolled away. He placed them back into their cup on the table, their arrangement matching how they’d been set out before with eerie exactness. 

“Who were the navigators?” asked Mizaistom. He frowned as he finished shuffling through the disappointingly sparse file pulled from a literal mountain of applicant information.

“The nice kiriko family outside Zaban City. They reported being very impressed with Kurapika and his friends’ performance in their test.”

“Did they ask him about his purpose in becoming a Hunter?”

“No, they assumed he’d passed that test, since the ship captain directed him and his friends to their home using the most direct path. That meant the captain had done a full evaluation already and was convinced of their appropriateness to take the exam.”

“Do we have any record of the captain’s methods? Any hint as to what Kurapika could’ve given him as a reason?”

“There’s very little available. Most of his report focuses on Rookie #405 and how impressed he was with #405’s seafaring abilities.”

Mizaistom groaned. The Hunter Association hired all sorts of people to weed out applicants before the start of the exam. Some tended to be more eccentric than others, and the sea captain in question had proven no exception.

“And is that man, that sea captain, still employed by the Hunter Association?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he currently?”

“Out to sea on a three month trading journey to the Begerossé Union.”

“And can he be contacted?”

“Not for two weeks, which is the earliest he’s expected to arrive in port to resupply.”

Mizaistom frowned and said nothing. The barman was programmed to make kidding statements at Mizaistom if he grew too irritated, because the programmers who’d written the law portal had had Mizaistom in mind as their primary user. They’d thought it’d make a good joke on him. Only three other people had the same unfettered access to the Hunter Association’s archives that Mizaistom did, but thanks to the programmers who’d written the code, the website recognized his login and put on a special, ridiculous performance just for him. Naturally, Mizaistom suspected that Pariston might’ve had something to do with it. Doing the utmost to annoy Mizaistom for no reason whatsoever certainly fell in with the man’s sense of humor.

As for the matter with the sea captain, Mizaistom didn’t have two weeks to wait around. He needed to locate Kurapika before the year’s end, and waiting weeks to hear why he’d become a Hunter in the first place wasn’t time Mizaistom could afford to waste. He couldn’t even be sure the captain would remember Kurapika anyway. The man had clearly been more taken with Gon. All he’d reported about Kurapika, with Leorio thrown in as well, was “good sea legs, saved a crewman who was nearly tossed overboard in a storm”. The end. That was it.

“Let’s start going through #404’s exam results,” said Mizaistom to the barman, who was scratching an itch up his sleeve with the handle of a judge’s gavel. The barman scrambled to attention, causing several papers to fly up around him, though none of the files Mizaistom had opened in front of him were disturbed. The barman’s wig spun to cover his face in his hurry, and he stopped and busied himself for some time straightening it. 

Once the files Mizaistom had requested finished downloading, the barman apologized and held them before his face, adjusting their distance in relation to the grandfatherly bifocals he’d pulled from his robes and set on the tip of his nose. He cleared his throat and began to read aloud Kurapika's performance review in the first phase of the 287th Hunter Exam. Mizaistom sat back and listened, skimming along as the file simultaneously appeared on his dashboard.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Leroute’s incessant sneer snapped to a frown when she was asked about Majitani.

“We’re not in touch. Not me and that loser.”

“You wouldn’t be,” said Lippo from behind the camera. “He’s dead.”

“Good riddance.”

“You don’t care how? Or when?”

“Not unless he was loaded and put me in his will.”

There was a rustle of fabric and the slightest creak of a chair as Lippo pushed his glasses back up his nose. Knowing Lippo, Mizaistom imagined the man casting off a subtle, sinister aura, beseeching Leroute without a word to take his interview a tad more seriously if she wanted to make it through the next sixty-one years of her reduced sentence in good health.

“Do you recall the boy Majitani fought in the Hunter’s Exam?”

“The kid who smashed his face in the ground in one hit? Or the one who threatened to push him off the stage to prove a bet?”

“The first one.”

“I don’t remember him that well. He wasn’t on the stage for long. Things went south fast the second Majitani showed him that stupid tattoo and said he was some big important guy in the Phantom Troupe. That’s when the kid knocked Majitani down and told him he was full of crap.”

“What exactly did the kid say to Majitani?”

“I dunno. He was pretty ticked off, but he didn’t get loud. He just knocked Majitani down, chewed him out, and left the stage. Said his tattoo was wrong. Said he’d kill him if he impersonated a Phantom Troupe member again. He meant it, too. We could tell.”

“Could you tell anything else about him?”

“Yeah. Or well. Hm...." At last, some of Leroute's arrogant confidence wavered. She shrugged. "It was hard to see since I still had my cloak on, but…well, I’m not sure. Bendot was the only one watching really close the whole time, and he said…well, haven’t you spoke to Bendot, though?”

“That doesn’t matter. What did Bendot say to you he saw?”

“Something weird.”

“And?”

Leroute squinted in thought, deliberating wether or not she really wanted to go on record repeating whatever it was Bendot had said. She realized, at the same time, that she hardly had a choice. She'd said too much already, and Lippo was waiting for more.

“Okay, well, the kid had long hair," said Leroute cautiously, "and it was all in his face after throwing Majitani down like that, so, I didn't see it very well. But Bendot said he thinks he saw the kid’s eyes light up." She frowned and made a small tsk of annoyance at the poor description. "I mean not like, happy or excited, but literally, they glowed. He said it was like two embers smouldering from within the shadows on the kid’s face, like he had some kind of monster or demon inside him that came out right then. But, that’s ridiculous. Those kind of things, stuff like demons that can possess people and give them power? That’s not real.”

Lippo hummed and nodded. “Did you see anything of that nature yourself?”

“I said no. I don’t think I saw anything. I just sort of saw him change or transform or whatever that was. I didn't see his eyes.”

“He transformed, then? How did he transform?”

"He was furious with Majitani."

"But there was a physical change?"

“Well, sort of. Before, he was just a normal kid--thin for his height, not too strong looking. Maybe a bit overconfident, but then, I already knew what a loser Majitani was, so I wasn’t all that surprised when the kid didn’t fall for his act. Once you figure out a guy as simple and stupid as Majitani, you’ve pretty much won. He’s got nothing left. A total loser. But, when the kid attacked him like that? It came out of nowhere. The kid didn’t even need to go as far as he did so fast, but it was like Majitani flipped a switch with that tattoo. The kid just got really quiet, and I remember hearing Majitani talking and talking, on and on, really far away, and I knew without even seeing it that something was wrong, but Majitani had no idea. It was only a second after that when the kid knocked Majitani into the ground.”

“But you never saw the boy’s eyes?”

“I was looking at Majitani, the idiot. The kid was already picking up his stuff and leaving when I got a good look at him. Bendot told us about the eyes while the candidates were arguing with each other, but Sedokan and I didn’t see it. Sedokan was like me. He mostly just saw Majitani hit the ground.”

Lippo had been holding off with tremendous effort as Leroute had been speaking, but now he eagerly he dug his hand into a bag of mixed, foil-wrapped chocolates. He opened and popped several into his mouth in succession. His mouth was so near to the camera that the sounds of him eating and savoring the candy overwhelmed all other noise in the room. Mizaistom, watching the video in his office a day later, grunted in disgust.

“I believe you’ve provided all the information we’ll need,” said Lippo. “Thank you for being so cooperative. It’s greatly appreciated. Would you like a chocolate?”

“What? No way,” said Leroute in disgust, not interested in the hand that had appeared in the corner of the shot holding out the opened bag of sweets. “Am I like a dog? You have to pay me a treat for being a good boy?”

“Of course not,” said Lippo. He shook the bag once more to entice her. “Dogs are allergic to chocolate.”

Though she’d said she didn’t want anything, Leroute wasn't being given an honest choice. She reached out and grabbed a chocolate at random from the bag, not even looking at whatever was in her hand as she pulled it back.

“Is there anything else you can add to what you’ve told us that might be useful?” asked Lippo. “Any comments, theories, side notes?”

“My only comment is that all those kids in the exam were freaks,” said Leroute. Her grip around the candy in her hand tightened. “Even that big-nosed old dude in the beginning was weird. Majitani got beat because he was an idiot, though. It sounds like you’re after the kid who fought him, but I really think the bigger danger is that white haired boy who ripped out Johness the Dissector’s heart. Bendot said that kid must be an assassin, which means that kid’s a criminal, right? So, why isn’t he locked up with the rest of us? It’s not fair, letting that kind of person take the Hunter Exam just because he hasn’t been caught. Don’t you guys do background checks on those weirdos? What if a guy like that passed and became a Hunter?”

The glint from Lippo’s glasses as he tilted his face down flickered across Leroute’s face in the video. She pursed her lips, looked away, and grew quiet.

“Any other comments?” asked Lippo, a menacing edge in his voice. “Anything pertinent, perhaps?”

Leroute shook her head.

“Then, you may go,” said Lippo. Behind Leroute two prison security guards stepped out from the shadows to escort her. “And thank you again for your assistance,” Lippo called to her as she reached the door. “You’ve been very good today. I hope you get to enjoy that sweet later at dinner. Or perhaps have it as a nice pick-me-up with your coffee at breakfast. You deserve it. Truly. Enjoy.”

Leroute didn’t reply or even look at him. Beside the microphone of the camera, Lippo was already unwrapping and chewing on more handfuls of candy. After far too long a pause in which Mizaistom was sure Lippo was testing his patience, the video finally, thankfully, shut off.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“How did Majitani die?” asked Mizaistom on the video call back to Lippo later that same evening.

“Complications from his multiple facial and bodily reconstruction surgeries which were aggravated by later getting himself thrown face-first into a stone floor by the wrong, infuriated, seventeen-year-old boy,” said Lippo. His small, serene smile was out of place given the subject matter. “There was a lot going on in that man’s body. Lots of metal and silicone and overstretched skin. He was really more of a display piece, delicate, something that should be kept on a shelf and never used in an actual fight.”

“Why did you select him for the Exam if you knew he wasn’t capable of performing against the candidates?”

“For the same reason I’d put any of my wards in the an Exam: Any candidate stupid enough or too inadequate to win against him wouldn’t have deserved to pass.” 

Mizaistom glowered at Lippo. Unfazed and laughing, Lippo told Mizaistom to stop exaggerating his disappointment so much, or else no-one was ever going to take him seriously.

“You’re too hung up on the worse case scenario, Mizaistom, as you always are, where you imagine everything to be hugely unfair long after the fact. Thanks to hindsight, you picture a delicate glass man like Majitani facing a wrecking ball of a certified Hunter, when in reality, up until the moment he was thrown into the ground, there was simply no way of knowing who he’d pair up with in his match.”

“Your exam was the third phase. Any average person who may have run cringing from Majitani would’ve likely been weeded out by that point.”

“And what of it?” asked Lippo with a chuckle. “Are you trying to build a case against me? I thought you contacted me for information on the kid, not to hassle me about how I run my prison. You see, this is why no-one ever wants to talk to you or help you with anything. I know you’re a sensible person deep down, and I respect you because ex-Chairman Netero handpicked you to join the Zodiacs. But, to be totally frank, you’re too judgy, and you make people nervous.”

“If you’re nervous, then it’s because of your own guilty conscious, Lippo.”

“Oh, no, it's definitely not that. I’m more nervous thinking how much time I’m going to waste if it turns out you really are after me for something. You and I know that if for some ludicrous reason you were to bring me to court over the wrongful death of Majitani, you’d lose. He signed a waiver. I’m not responsible.”

“The moment he was admitted into your prison you were responsible for him. Don’t wash your hands of it just because you got an idiot like him to sign a piece of paper.”

“Ah, but he still signed it.”

Lippo punctuated his last point with a wide grin and then snacked on a small handful of caramel popcorn from a bag in his lap. The rustle and crunching sounds prevented Mizaistom from getting a word in, though Mizaistom wasn’t interested in arguing anyway. Legally, he had no ground to stand on, and berating Lippo all day for his shoddy testing methods during the exam wasn’t going to bring justice to Majitani. Lippo wouldn’t care. Like most Blacklist Hunters, Lippo lost interest or concern for his prey the moment they were locked away. He’d originally built his Trick Tower as a trophy case to store his prizes and challenge them to find an escape, but over time even that had bored him. Mizaistom had investigated the practices within the prison on several occasions, but the matter had always come down to the difficulty of finding a regional court that claimed any sort of jurisdiction over the area, and he could never find enough solid evidence to bring Lippo before the Hunter Association’s judges instead.

Lippo, of course, always laughed whenever Mizaistom came nosing around. He welcomed Mizaistom every time and said he considered himself one of Mizaistom’s special pet projects to tinker with whenever Mizaistom was having a slow month. He speculated openly about how many other fruitless investigations against his fellow Hunters Mizaistom kept on the back burner, occasionally even dropping names of who they might be and checking for a reaction, but Mizaistom would always become taciturn at the suggestion and refused to respond.

“I presume you’ve watched all the videos I’ve sent you,” said Lippo. “What did you think of the matches? I’m sure you watched them all. Riveting stuff, that. Those kids came out nowhere. I wasn’t surprised when four of them ended up passing the entire Exam. They were all rookies, but they were exceptional. When I saw Leorio in the elections this year, I felt like a proud parent. Imagine if I’d told Leroute about that? That the man she was up against in her test almost became chairman of the Hunter Association two years later? She’d lose her cool for that. She’d ask me what kind of idiots we have running things, but afterwards, she'd try to find a way to use it to her advantage. Probably start a letter campaign asking Leorio to intervene in her case and get her sentence reduced further than the fifty years she’s already won from him. She’s tenacious. It might even work.”

“Don’t even think about telling her. I’ll intervene and present this call as evidence, demonstrating you orchestrated her petition for release yourself, because to you the only thing worse than a criminal getting away from you and running free is one that’s locked up where you can’t hunt them down anymore.”

Lippo smiled so wide his eyes became narrow slits behind his lenses. He chuckled to himself and then ate another small handful of caramel popcorn.

“Anyway, the video of the fight itself wasn’t much use,” said Mizaistom. “Kurapika moved too fast at that moment, and afterward he was mostly looking down at Majitani on the floor. There’s only a slight flash of red that might be his eyes glowing when Majitani shows him his spider tattoo, but Kurapika’s aware of it and lowers his face to obscure a clear view to anyone but his opponent. Therefore, without Majitani as a witness to corroborate Bendot’s claim, it’s not enough to prove anything.”

“To prove what?" asked Lippo around lazily picking a piece of popcorn from between his teeth. "Is the kid on trial for making a pact with a demon or something? I didn’t think we had laws against colluding with the devil in this century. I seriously hope you’re aware Nen is still a thing that exists.”

“Don’t play dumb, Lippo. You must know by now what causes someone’s eyes to go red like that.”

“Of course I know. When Bendot asked Majitani about it later, Majitani didn’t even say it was red. He said it was  _ scarlet._” 

Lippo wasn’t smiling now. He stared into the camera intently, waiting for Mizaistom to speak and confirm what they both already knew. Mizaistom, for his part, remained impassive.

“Well,” continued Lippo at last, “since then, I’ve found out that the kid became a Blacklist Hunter. How nice. We’re colleagues. Putting it all together in hindsight, I guess what happened to Majitani doesn’t surprise me in the least. The luck of the draw was not in that poor idiot’s favor. Am I correct?”

“Without definite proof, it’s conjecture.”

“Is he on trial for being a Kurta clansman? I don’t remember that being illegal.”

“He’s not on trial for anything.”

“Or, you mean he’s going on trial for something, but you can’t tell me yet,” said Lippo. He let out a loud, put-upon sigh and reached into the bag of caramel popcorn again. “I guess I’ll keep an eye out on the Hunter website in case any new bounties show up in the next few months. I’ll just have to be patient.”

“Sure, do that,” said Mizaistom.

“You know, it might just be circumstantial evidence in a court of law, but you should look into how he dresses. That might speed things along. It’s easy to narrow down once you’ve got a lead on his eyes. If you look it up, as I have, you’ll see that during the exam he wore the typical traveler’s dress of Lukson and the surrounding provinces. Not anything specifically Kurta outright, but then again, why would you travel in your native garb after everyone else who's worn it has been brutally massacred by the Phantom Troupe? It places him in the right geographical area, though.”

“That’s helpful of you,” said Mizaistom. Lippo beamed.

“Just thought it’d be useful to know to move things along. I’m really looking forward to finding out what it is you’re after this kid for.”

“I never said I was after him. He’s simply connected to a case I’m on. That’s all.”

“Of course. And when you’re finally after him, you’ll summon us, the hounds, to track him down. I hope you give me a head start, though. I’ll be waiting for the signal.”

Lippo smiled and munched on another handful of caramel popcorn, the expression in his eyes unreadable behind the glare of his lenses. He was wrong, of course, but it was better for Mizaistom to neither confirm nor deny Lippo’s assumptions. He didn’t want Lippo to grow more curious than he was. In fact, Mizaistom wouldn’t have involved him at all, except he was certain that if he’d traveled out to Trick Tower Prison himself and conducted the interviews without including Lippo, Lippo would’ve immediately questioned the witnesses after to find out what Mizaistom had wanted. It was easier to include Lippo and hold him in suspense, to leave him waiting, blinded by overeagerness, for a new and exciting target to appear. Lippo had no way of knowing he was waiting in vain.

“It’s a rare treat, the opportunity to hunt a fellow Hunter,” said Lippo after he’d swallowed his next mouthful of caramel popcorn. “The kid must’ve done something awful. This ought to be exciting.”

“Go right ahead and wait,” said Mizaistom, crossing his arms. “And keep on waiting.”


	4. Coffee

“Hello, again,” said Mizaistom as he invited himself into Leorio’s apartment as soon as Leorio opened the door. “There are some things we need to discuss.”

Leorio stood bewildered in the open doorway, facing an empty hall while Mizaistom crossed into the living room behind him and sat down on his couch. After a deep breath to stifle his temper, Leorio shut the door. He grumbled as he locked it about how people needed to call first before just barging into someone’s place. After entering the living room, he pulled the chair away from a desk in the corner and sat down across from Mizaistom at the low coffee table. He waited impatiently for Mizaistom to explain what he was doing there. 

“Make some coffee, first,” said Mizaistom. “It won’t be a short chat.”

Leorio, unaccustomed to being ordered around in his own home, crossed his arms and refused.

“How did things go with Senritsu?” he asked. “She called me asking why I don’t trust you, but wouldn’t give me a reason why she was all worried about that. She had reservations about helping you. I could tell. What did she find out?”

“She does have reservations, but she was as helpful as she could afford to be given the circumstances. It wasn’t an absolute waste of time talking to her.”

“Have you found Kurapika, then?”

“Not yet.”

“Of course,” said Leorio bitterly. “I knew it. I could tell when I saw you.”

“You could tell?”

“Yeah. You seem fucking exhausted. Anything to do with Kurapika has that effect.”

“That’s true,” said Mizaistom with a nod. “I am tired, and I’d still like a coffee, if you don’t mind. There’s a lot to go over.”

Leorio remained seated, arms still crossed, defiant.

“Go. I’ll wait,” said Mizaistom.

“There isn’t any coffee,” said Leorio. “I’ve run out and haven’t had time to go to buy more. You should’ve bought some on the way if you needed it. In fact, it’s kinda shortsighted to assume I’d have any." He eyed Mizaistom warily, looking him over from head to toe. "I think I’m beginning to see why Senritsu wasn’t so sure about helping you. I guess you don’t think ahead much.”

“You’re wrong. She didn’t want to help me because I wouldn’t give her all the information on hand. Just like you wouldn’t give me all the information that you know. She held that against me. Fortunately for you, I don’t hold that against you.”

“I warned you not to lie to her.”

“I didn’t lie. I withheld information that didn’t pertain to her.”

“You should’ve believed me when I told you she was reliable, you should’ve trusted her, and you should’ve told her everything.”

“And you should’ve trusted  _ me _ and told me why Kurapika was specifically hunting the Phantom Troupe,” snapped Mizaistom. Leorio backed away unthinkingly, alarmed at the sudden edge in Mizaistom’s voice. “The fact that he is a surviving Kurta clansman is a very big deal. It’s the exact sort of thing I needed to know to be able to find him without running around like I have been, wasting over a week of my own, limited time, digging it all up myself.”

“If you know that now,” said Leorio, “then you know exactly why it’s the kind of thing not to share with someone I barely know. You understand how that can be used against him.”

“Of course I understand, but you have to know we’re going to end up working together on a lot more sensitive matters than this if you end up joining the Zodiacs. It’s not a good sign if you give me an assignment and then refuse to give me the information I need to complete it. So, tell me, do you really want us to find Kurapika? Or did you recommend Kurapika to Cheadle in order to waste her and, transitively, my time?”

“No. I want you to find Kurapika.”

“Is that the truth?”

“You think I’m lying?”

“I have every reason to suspect it, and I don’t blame you. But, I’m going to have to ask you not to. I know all about Kurapika, so there’s nothing you can hide from me. It was a crucial distinction to make, you see, to tell if he was hunting the Phantom Troupe for himself or for the mafia, because it tells me he’s more than just the typical Blacklist Hunter out to chase down criminals for sport. His motive is everything, and your omission has cost me over a week researching his past when I could’ve already been establishing alternate ways to meet him through his dealings on the black market searching for his clansmen’s eyes.”

Leorio didn't have the patience for Mizaistom's patronizing tone and drawn-out reprimand. “And did you come all the way out here to lecture me and complain about that?” asked Leorio. “That’s not really something I’d expect of a Zodiac and Two-star Hunter. Seems sort of petty.”

“No, I’m not here to lecture you. I need you to confirm everything. I need to know how many of my assumptions about your friend are correct, so that I can proceed to act.”

“I thought you said you knew everything now.”

“I want to know for sure, and you’re the only person I can go to. This should be obvious, but the truth is my assumptions alone are not what I want directing my choices as I enter the criminal underworld. When I work with facts, I know with certainty what the situation is without constructing pure fiction off a base of mere assumptions. The things that seem the most obvious can be the places where you're the most wrong. It's why I’m going to need you to confirm many things for me, even those things that might seem obvious or trivial to you, before I finalize my plans on how to approach your friend on his own turf, following his own rules. It’s the only way I can hope to persuade him to join the Zodiacs…if that’s indeed what you really wanted when you recommended him.”

Leorio leaned forward and uncrossed his arms, growing more intrigued in spite of himself. “Are you serious?” he asked, his voice wavering. He was fighting against getting his hopes up. “You think you’ll be able to get him to accept?”

“If he’s who I think he is, I’m confident he will,” said Mizaistom. Leorio gripped the arms of his desk chair tightly at the thought. “So," continued Mizaistom, "you need to start coming to terms with the fact that you’ll be joining the Zodiacs in the immediate future…unless you’re ready to admit otherwise and save me the trouble of hunting your friend down.”

“No, no, I want you to find him,” said Leorio quickly. He stood from his seat and motioned towards the kitchen. “I lied. There’s coffee in the cabinet. You were right.”

“Good. Then, go make some, and we’ll get started with some questions. After that, we’ll come up with a plan— _together_ , since as fellow Zodiacs we’ll be working together—for how best to reach Kurapika. Okay?”

“Of course,” said Leorio as he hurried to the kitchen. Mizaistom pulled a small notebook out from his jacket pocket and set it on his lap. He read over his notes to pass the time, while from the other room the scent of coffee wafted out followed by the rumbling sounds of a machine beginning to brew a fresh pot.

“No sugar,” called Mizaistom as Leorio stuck his head out of the kitchen doorway to catch what he'd said. “And I’ll get the milk myself.”


	5. Zepile

Mizaistom had included Leorio in his plans to find Kurapika for the sake of convenience and also as a show of trust. He and Leorio were on the same side, after all, and Mizaistom was convinced that if he could approach Kurapika directly, in just the right manner, Kurapika would join the Zodiacs without question. He made certain Leorio was aware of this, too. Once Mizaistom spoke to Kurapika, there’d be no more room for Leorio’s excuses or delays. Kurapika would be traveling to the Dark Continent on the Black Whale in a year’s time, and it was only a question of whether Leorio would be joining him or not.

Leorio, of course, kept insisting he would go, though every instinct inside Mizaistom insisted back that Leorio couldn’t possibly know that yet. How could a Rookie Hunter, who’d been so late developing his Nen, and whose current life experience was that of a full-time student, possibly know without hesitation that he was willing to go on a mission to the Dark Continent? Mizaistom didn't believe the magnitude of such a perilous assignment was real to Leorio yet, and he sternly encouraged Leorio to research what the mission might entail before making a final decision. Even if Leorio had the support of much of the Hunter Association after only two short years of membership, he was still too young to die for it all yet.

“You don’t like the milk here, or you don’t trust it?” asked the grinning man who’d stepped up to grab a few packets of sugar beside Mizaistom in the café. He’d just watched Mizaistom pull out five pots of creamer from his legal bag and methodically empty each one into a black coffee. Mizaistom glanced to the side, towards the stranger, annoyed at his meddlesome comment, but without actually seeing him.

“I always add the milk myself.”

“That’s weird,” said the man brightly. “But I’m pretty sure I’m not the first to tell you that.”

Mizaistom held up one of the empty creamer pots and pointed to the emblem of a long-horned bovine on its lid.

“This half-and-half creamer is made from actual dairy. It blends completely into coffee with minimal agitation, is conveniently sized and shelf-stable for up to half a year, and includes milk and cream sourced from Korbian water buffalo rather than cow. It’s a prime product, best on the market. I prefer it to all others when I take coffee. With its natural sweetness and fatty unctuousness, there’s no need for sugar or any other embellishments.”

The stranger beside Mizaistom laughed out loud, not rudely, but rather in amused astonishment. He nodded enthusiastically when Mizaistom was finished. “Yeah, I figured you’d have a reason,” he said. “It’d be weirder if you didn’t.”

“I don’t understand why it matters to you how I take my coffee.”

“It doesn’t really matter. I just noticed. I have a good eye for details,” said the man. He added in a lower voice Mizaistom could hardly hear, “It’s kind of a suspicious thing to do, though, you know? Adding your own creamer? Like going into a restaurant and bringing your own salt to the table. I get why, of course, but also, it’s not normal.” He stopped, chuckled, and then continued in a louder, more natural voice, “That creamer must be something else for you to take it around everywhere with you in your bag.”

“It’s what I like,” said Mizaistom.

“Well, if it’s that amazing, maybe I should get some myself. What’s the brand? Do they even sell water buffalo products in normal stores?”

“Here, I have more,” said Mizaistom. He reached into his bag and removed three additional pots of creamer. He slid them over the counter to the man, who covered them with his hand like they were a secret no-one else should see.

“It kinda feels like some illicit activity, you know? Swapping outside creamers across the counter in a café. Feels like there should be a law against it.”

“There’s not a single law against it whatsoever, but for propriety’s sake, you should try to be discreet.”

The man held a finger to his lips and winked. Then, with a surprisingly deft hand, opened and emptied each packet into his coffee so fast Mizaistom would’ve missed it if he’d blinked. The man spied Mizaistom’s startled look and grinned. He quickly stirred the coffee and creamer together before squeezing the lid back on. Miraculously, the used pots of creamer had already vanished, dropped without a sound into the hole in the counter between them leading to the waste bin below.

“Thanks,” said the man, saluting Mizaistom with the cup as he turned to go. “This is good stuff. I’d been sneaking it into my coffee all the time, too, if I could afford it.”

“How do you know that if you’ve never tried it? We might not even have the same tastes.”

“Never said I never tried it,” said the man as he made his exit. “I appreciate the free sample, though. See ya.”

Mizaistom didn’t utter a single word while watching the man depart. Though he’d give away the creamer of his own free will, he felt distinctly as if he’d been robbed or cheated of it somehow. He’d certainly been mislead, but was that really a crime in and of itself? Again, he’d have been generous and given the man the creamer regardless. The added deception had been entirely unnecessary. All it'd done did was leave Mizaistom feeling insulted and disinclined to offer creamer to any strangers in the future.

Mizaistom recorded the creamer conman's face in his mind for future reference. Although the city was large, and it was doubtful they’d ever cross paths again, Mizaistom couldn’t stop the automatic instinct to remember and keep score. He filed away the close cut, reddish-orange hair with dagger-like sideburns grown out and trimmed to a point. Sitting in the resulting frame of hair had been darker eyebrows reminiscent of a great-horned owl’s plumicorns, or else some sort of foreign punctuation asking Mizaistom a question he didn’t know how to answer. The square jaw and narrow chin below hadn’t matched the wideness of the forehead or roundness of the domed head. The rest of the man’s features had been hard to make out beneath a winter coat. All Mizaistom knew beyond the face was that the man had been shorter than him, but not by too much.

“Oh good, you’ve learned to bring your own coffee,” observed Leorio unenthusiastically as Mizaistom entered his apartment after offering nothing more than a nod of greeting before brushing past to set his bag and drink on the table.

“I don’t know how you found someone to interview so fast, but I’m doubtful it’ll work out,” said Mizaistom as he began to lay out supplies for an impromptu interview with a job candidate Leorio had somehow located in little more than a day. “The Hunter Association board can’t even narrow down a pool of Pro Hunters this fast when assigning missions. Don’t be upset if it doesn’t work out.”

“Hey. You’re the one who said not to waste any time.”

“I know. But I just don’t think that, well….” Mizaistom trailed off without bothering to complete the sentence. He sigh and kept on unpacking. “Let’s just hurry up and get this out of the way. I didn’t put aside more than an hour, since I have a security company to run in addition to all this, and we’re busy making preparations for my upcoming absence next year.”

“Okay, but you’re early. We’ll have to wait for the guy to arrive. Really, you’re lucky he was already in town and everything. It was like fate.”

Mizaistom wasn’t sure about fate playing a part on such short notice. “Perhaps,” he offered with noncommittal shrug. “And who exactly is this person you’ve found to infiltrate the black market in less than two days since you and I last met? I thought you said Kurapika was your only criminal connection.”

“I have lots of connections,” said Leorio defensively. Mizaistom arched a brow in question while he twisted off the lid of his coffee cup. “Okay, well not _criminal_ ones,” Leorio clarified, “but I do know a lot of people.”

Mizaistom finished a long sip of hot coffee and put the cup back down on the table. He handed the lid to Leorio to throw away.

“To be honest, Senritsu has a wider network of people who have experience working in the black market than you do,” said Mizaistom. “I have very little confidence that whoever you’ve selected is going to fit the bill. Therefore,” here Mizaistom reached into his bag and pulled out a small stack of papers protected inside a plastic sheath. He tossed them lightly onto the end of the table nearest Leorio as Leorio came back from throwing away the coffee lid, “when you talk to her to arrange future our interviews, you’ll need to be very clear on the type of person I’m looking for.”

Leorio took the bundle of papers and slid them out of the cover. As he flipped through them, Mizaistom saved time by reciting what he deemed the most crucial requirements on their list.

“The candidate must be a skilled seller and trader, preferably with some background in underground work. They must also be experienced in working with clients directly, discreetly, and with absolute professionalism. They must be smart and able to operate independently, since I won’t be able to join them in the field. And, of course, more than anything, they must be someone we can trust won’t betray us if they encounter significant danger while out on their own.”

“It’s a tall order,” agreed Leorio as he let the papers in his hand fall back into place, “but I think we’ve found the right one. There won’t be more interviews after this.”

“We…?” asked Mizaistom. In the back of his mind, he was already scrambling to find a solution to the security risk of Leorio pulling yet another person into this investigation and possibly compromising their entire plan.

“Senritsu and I, we both vouch for this guy.”

Mizaistom frowned. “Oh. Well, while I don’t have much faith in a candidate you’ve selected yourself, if Senritsu has approved him, then maybe….”

“She definitely has. He helped us look after Kurapika when Kurapika was sick once.”

“Does Kurapika know him, too?”

“Not well.”

“Will Kurapika recognize him?”

“Maybe, but they aren’t so close that Kurapika would be as suspicious of him as he’d be of me if I were suddenly selling goods on the black market for you.”

“Ah. So, this man’s a known criminal, then?”

“You can ask him about that when he gets here in fifteen minutes,” said Leorio. He caught the look on Mizaistom’s face and waved a finger at him warningly. “Also, don’t you dare assume that me not answering that question outright mean it’s a ‘yes’. It’s more complicated than that. You said you needed someone with blackmarket experience anyway. What did you expect?”

“I don’t see what’s so complicated about answering yes or no, then. He’s broken the law or he hasn’t. That’s all there is to it,” muttered Mizaistom as he opened the bag again and searched through it for the additional documentation he’d brought along on the far and distant chance that this interview wouldn’t turn out to be a complete waste of his time. Now that Leorio had mentioned Senritsu’s approval, he was glad he’d come prepared.

Ten minutes later and five minutes early, there was a knock on the front door. Mizaistom had already set up a full interview station at Leorio’s dining table, which constituted the only seating situation in the entire apartment with two matching chairs. As Leorio went to get the door, Mizaistom sat waiting with his hands clasped over his knee before realizing the stance was far too similar to Pariston’s. Annoyed, he set both feet firmly on the ground and straightened his back, exuding authority in lieu of a deceptively casual approach. Leorio, meanwhile, was taking a long time chatting with the visitor and taking his coat. Mizaistom noted no substantial difference in the flow of aura around the bodies in the room, meaning Leorio’s friend was probably not a Nen-user. He adjusted his expectations accordingly.

At long last, the candidate entered the dining area. The moment he saw Mizaistom, the man took in a short, astonished breath and ever so slightly hunched over in guilt. Mizaistom likewise couldn't believe it. The image in his mind of the man’s face was still as fresh as his feelings were sore. 

“You,” said Mizaistom.

The man from the café winced guiltily as he fumbled for the seat across the table from Mizaistom. “Yeah, me,” he echoed backed, embarrassed. He glanced behind him to Leorio, who just shrugged, baffled, and shook his head.

“What’s your name?” asked Mizaistom shortly.

“Zepile,” said the man. “What’s your name?”

“Mizaistom Nana. I’m the Hunter looking for a trader.”

“That’s great. I’m a trader,” said Zepile. He pulled himself together and launched into a professional sell of his abilities, though Mizaistom noticed he must be speaking much faster than was usual for him, since he came very close to tripping over his words more than once. 

“I’m an antiques trader, technically,” explained Zepile. “I buy and sell merchandise at auction events and sales around the world, so rest assured, if there’s anything you need sold or bought, I can certainly get that done for you. Commissions are normally 10% or 15% percent, depending on the value and desirability of the items or the lots in question.”

“You won’t be paid a commission working for me,” said Mizaistom. He felt better after witnessing a flash of disappointment over Zepile’s face, especially when he compared it to the self-satisfied grin the man had worn in the café. “You’ll receive a stipend only. The money you make in sales will be used to potentially purchase new items, which you will also sell. None of the money you’ll make selling will go to you.”

Zepile shifted in his seat and looked over again to Leorio standing in the kitchen doorway. Leorio nodded back.

“Yeah, I was warned it’d probably be something to that effect with this job,” said Zepile with a sigh. “It’s unfortunate, but I’ll accept it. There’s other compensation than money out there anyway.”

Now, Mizaistom looked at Leorio. “Such as?” he asked him. Zepile answered the question instead.

“You see, the thing is,” said Zepile, “is that I’ve had it in my head for a while that I’d like to become a Hunter one day. Or well, that I really want is the benefits that comes with the license. I washed out pretty bad in the last exam I took, though. Killua of all people kicked my ass and failed me in less than a minute. I need to train a lot more for my next attempt. Leorio and Senritsu offered to help me if I can help you out, so, here I am. It hurts, but I’ll forfeit the usual fees and commission price. I just really want that license.”

Mizaistom lead forward, pressing the tips of his fingers together lightly over the papers on the table in front of him. “Did they tell you anything specific about what I’ll need your help with, then?” he asked.

“Not really. Leorio and Senritsu have been sort of hush-hush about it. Hunter stuff, they told me. They said it involves the black market, which makes me a little nervous. I have a passing familiarity with the black market just by the nature of my business, but as a general rule, I’ve always tried to avoid working with stolen or illegal goods.”

“But you do have experience? And you will be able to work?”

“Yes. A market’s a market, really. Buying and selling is buying and selling. Some of it’s just more covert and risky.”

“And what exactly has been your previous experience in the black market in the past?”

“Oh, very limited stuff,” said Zepile. He took a deep breath and let it out loudly as he thought back. “Mostly I’ve sold a few items under the table, so to speak, but it was under duress. A rival blackmailed me, otherwise I wouldn’t have got involved in that kind of thing. It’s too dangerous.”

“If you were blackmailed, it means you were doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing in the first place, or else your rival wouldn’t have had any leverage.”

Zepile laughed nervously. “Ah, yes, of course” he admitted. “That’s correct.”

Mizaistom wasn't smiling back. “Are you a criminal?” he asked sharply. Zepile’s forced, amicable grin fell away in an instant.

“No.”

“Have you ever been convicted of a crime?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been arrested?”

“No.”

“Have you ever committed a crime?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing much. I sold that illegal stuff, for example. That was a crime.” 

“What else?”

“Beyond that, I don’t think anything else I’ve ever done is relevant to the position you’re offering.”

Mizaistom found the glance Zepile shot Leorio as he spoke to be highly suspicious.

“But anyway,” said Zepile when he noticed Mizaistom’s eyes narrowing, “everyone’s broken some kind of law before. No point making a list or anything, right?”

“When I ask if you’ve committed a crime, I don’t mean whether you’ve drunk underage, or ran a red light, or littered.”

“But if I’ve never been caught, does it matter?”

“If you’re this defensive, I think it might.”

Zepile’s false, relaxed façade failed at last. There was no charming Mizaistom or dodging his questions, so there was no point pretending the interview was easy. Zepile groaned and ran his hands over his short-cropped hair as he thought about his next answer and deliberated. Occasionally he looked over to Leorio for suggestions or reassurance. Leorio urged him silently to just admit to something, anything, if he wanted the job, since Mizaistom already suspected him anyway. Mizaistom, meanwhile, pretended not to notice their exchange as he sat back and leisurely checked the time on his watch. He wondered if Leorio had informed Zepile that Mizaistom didn’t have all day to watch Zepile grapple with a guilty conscience.

“Fine,” said Zepile at last. “It’s a professional thing. Nothing that matters to you. But, previously, I’ve done stuff like fudge a few appraisals for my own benefit and convince ignorant people that their authentic items were fakes in order to buy them at a lower price and well…you know how it goes.”

“So, fraud. You swindle people.”

“I swindled people, past tense. And it was never for that much anyway.”

“That still makes you a criminal.”

“I never got caught.”

“Good for you. It was still a crime.”

Zepile rocked back in his chair, rubbing his hand over his wrist as though adjusting a cuff he wasn't wearing. Eventually, he looked up and caught Mizaistom's gaze, holding it with an expression far more serious than Mizaistom had seen from him so far. In an even, emotionless voice, Zepile explained.

“I picked my sources very carefully. You see, people who are just trying to offload antiques they already don’t want, those kinds of people don’t really pay attention to how much you resell everything for. If they cared, they would’ve got more than one opinion in the first place, but all they want to do is get rid of the stuff and make a little extra cash. They want the transaction to be quick and painless, all of great-grandma’s stuff out of the attic today.”

“By your ‘sources’, you mean your victims?”

“If you put it like that….”

“If I say it exactly how it is,” Mizaistom butted in.

“…you’re absolutely right. I picked my targets, my victims, my sources, my marks, very carefully,” said Zepile only a little louder to speak over him. Mizaistom was caught off guard by Zepile’s ready agreement with the accusation. “I also kept the profit margin fairly small in order to avoid raising too much suspicion. It was just some extra money. I didn’t get rich or anything off of it. I wouldn't be here if I'd got rich.”

“But it was enough to blackmail you with.”

“Sure. But also, a reputation is valuable for an antiques trader, too. It’s not just about exposing someone's illicit gains when you're threatening to out their criminal activity or whatever unscrupulous practices they've followed.”

“And do you have any sort of reputation in the criminal underworld as a result of your past dealings?”

“Of course not,” said Zepile. He had the audacity to scoff at the suggestion. “I never wanted that kind of attention. I never went that deep or pulled off anything that big. I’ve worked on my own as much as I could, and, as you’re probably aware, you can’t really work alone when you’re in the black market. There’s a whole dangerous, criminal network behind it, and everyone who’s a part of it is really tightly wound all the time. There’s more money for that reason, yeah, but there’s a lot more trouble. I stay out of trouble.”

“If you work for me, you’ll be working in one of the most dangerous and notorious underground markets in the world.”

Zepile sat heavily all the way back in his chair. He frowned and rubbed his hands over his face, trying to psych himself up for the bad news before he asked for it. He’d been forewarned about the level of danger inherent to the job by Leorio and was wavering between his desire to stay safe and his dream of obtaining a Hunter License. For nearly a full minute, he stared down at the table with his hands clasped behind his head, thinking everything over one final time.

“It’s not… _people_ , is it?” asked Zepile cautiously, almost in a whisper. It was clear that if Mizaistom answered yes to this question, Zepile’s decision would be made, and he’d stand up and walk out of the interview without another word. Mizaistom hesitated as he considered how best to describe the situation, and Zepile, alarmed by the pause, watched Leorio, his wide eyes imploring him to confirm that Mizaistom certainly couldn’t mean human trafficking.

“Close, but not exactly,” said Mizaistom. Zepile grimaced but held back in demonstrating his full revulsion until Mizaistom finished explaining. “Human body part collecting. That’s what I need you for. You need to buy and sell collectable human remains.”

“Huh,” said Zepile. His instinctual reaction of disgust at the prospect showed in his face, but collectable human body parts didn't seem to be a total deal breaker. “I guess…I guess I could do that. The antique world has stuff like that, usually in the form of memento mori or anthropodermic bibliopegy. A lot of it’s illegal to sell, though, once it’s proven to be human remains, especially if there’s a question of consent. It’s a gray area. Largely depends on where in the world you are, since something being extremely creepy doesn’t necessarily make it outright illegal.”

“Nothing outright illegal will pass through your hands,” Mizaistom assured him, “and certainly nothing alive or dangerous. However, while you make connections in the underworld, you’ll be spreading some information for us as well. There’s a target, someone in the human body parts market, who I want to draw out, and whose people will hopefully approach you once word has spread about your offer. Until you accept the job, however, I can’t tell you more than that.”

“I see,” said Zepile. He was still acclimating to the idea, but was already a little surer of himself than he'd been moments before. “So, does this have to do with Kurapika?”

Zepile was looking at Leorio as he asked the question. Mizaistom was the one who responded.

“What do you mean?” he asked. He was displeased that Zepile already knew so much before Mizaistom had even hired him. Zepile looked back at Mizaistom, surprised he’d got himself in trouble so soon just for pointing out the obvious. 

“I mean, well, if Leorio’s a part of this, and it’s a flesh collector we’re looking for, then it has to do with Kurapika, doesn’t it?” he asked. “Kurapika and Senritsu work for that mafia family, the one with the girl they say collects body parts. So, when you have Leorio here and you talk about underground auctions and flesh collectors, my mind just immediately goes to Kurapika. Am I wrong?”

Leorio and Mizaistom exchanged a look between them. Leorio stepped out of the kitchen doorway and took the initiative.

“We’re looking for Kurapika,” he admitted. “That’s exactly what this is.”

“Oh, really? Is he okay?”

“Probably. Senritsu would’ve said something if he weren’t.”

“So, you guys can’t find him yourselves. You need to put on this sort of an act to draw him out?”

“Yes,” said Leorio. “I can’t do it, because I’m too well-known in the Hunter Association now. I can’t really hide my identity for long, and the second Kurapika hears it’s me, I might see him, yeah, but I won’t get two words in. He’ll probably just chase me off.”

“True,” said Zepile. He stroked his chin thoughtfully and turned to Mizaistom. “And you?”

“I run a high a risk of being recognized as well,” said Mizaistom. “And if the wrong people recognize me, it could be bad for me and Kurapika both. That’s why I’m looking for someone most people wouldn’t know, but who can set the stage for Kurapika to meet with me. That’s our final goal.”

“You mean you’re not looking for him for yourself?” asked Zepile, now to Leorio. “You were complaining to me the other day that he’s impossible to contact.”

“This isn’t really part of all that. Mizaistom needs to find Kurapika for some Hunter stuff,” said Leorio. He looked away, embarrassed that Zepile had said so much so bluntly in front of Mizaistom. “You know I wouldn’t go and send someone after Kurapika just because he doesn’t answer his phone. That would be so weird.”

Zepile, an accurate judge of people, didn’t appear to believe Leorio, but dropped the subject. Mizaistom took a mental note to be on his guard if he ever needed to bend the truth around him. He didn’t want to relive his experience with Senritsu and jeopardize the entire investigation because Zepile might call him out for lying just as easily as she had.

“If you’re okay with working as my agent in the flesh collector’s market, you can have the job,” said Mizaistom. It was impossible for him to feel fully content with such a quick choice, but he remembered Senritsu and Leorio had both vouched for Zepile. “Time is limited, so you’ll have to decide today. The Zodiacs will have a meeting in Swaldani City later in December, and I need to find Kurapika before then. If you agree, we’ll fly out to Swaldani City tonight so that I can finalize a few things at the Hunter Association headquarters. In two days, we’ll go to Baleno City, in Relumbria, where the Nostrade family is headquartered.”

“That fast?” asked Zepile with a slight gasp. “Where will I stay? How long will I be gone? I might need a visa for Relumbria…it’s not in the V5.”

“You mean the V6, and don’t worry, at headquarters I can classify you as a Hunter candidate I’m training, which will let you piggyback on a few of my privileges if there are any travel restrictions. There’s sort of a pass I have to renew for you every ninety days, though I hope I won’t need it in this case, since we only have a month and a half. If there aren’t any travel restrictions, I won’t even bother, though, because—”

“It’s fine,” interrupted Zepile. “I trust you can sort it all out. You’re a Hunter. I’ll take the job. There’s just one little thing I need to do here real quick, but if I can head out now, I’ll have it done by this evening.”

“I’ll compensate any flights or hotel bookings you have to cancel. Just bring me the receipts. If you have to break a work contract, I’ll pay the associated fees, as well.”

Seemingly out of nowhere, Zepile started laughing and looked over to Leorio. Mizaistom frowned, not liking the abrupt change in tone. “Oh, so, it’s true Hunters are loaded?” Zepile asked Leorio, alluding to some inside joke of theirs. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you always broke?”

Leorio began to explain his situation as a student. It sounded like a conversation the two had had multiple times already, and Mizaistom, instead of interrupting, took advantage of the interlude to slide his papers back into his bag. He left a copy of the job description and his card on the table for Zepile to take. Finished, he stood to leave, and the bickering between Zepile and Leorio ended abruptly. Zepile stood as well and accepted the hand Mizaistom held out. They shook briefly, and Mizaistom gestured to the documents on the table.

“You can read over everything and call if you have any questions,” he explained as began pulling on his coat to leave. Zepile had taken up the business card and was already looking over it. “I’ve written my personal cell number on the back of my card. As for the flight, plan to wrap up whatever you need to get done by seven this evening, and arrive to the airport as close to eight as possible. Either I, or one of my people, will meet you at Departures. Do you have much luggage?”

“No. I was only in town for a few days. I’m traveling light.”

“Is there anything you’ll need from your home that you can’t acquire in Swaldani City or Baleno City? Medications, for example?”

“Nope. I live how I travel. Light.”

“Alright, then,” said Mizaistom. He adjusted his hat so that it sat more snugly on his head and then nodded a short farewell. “I’ll see you again in seven hours, Mr. Zepile.”

“It’s just Zepile,” said Zepile as Mizaistom headed for the door. “Mr…uh, Nana?”

“It’s just Mizaistom,” said Mizaistom back over his shoulder. Then, without a word of goodbye, he was gone. Behind him, Leorio had begun to say something to Zepile, but Mizaistom didn’t catch it as the door shut. He buttoned his coat and stepped into the elevator in the hall, pushing the button for the ground floor. As the doors slid shut, he heard the sound of Zepile’s voice bursting into the hall wishing Leorio luck on an upcoming exam and apologizing that he couldn’t stick around longer. Leorio told him to look out for himself. The elevator doors thudded shut, sundering Mizaistom from the rest of their conversation, and the elevator began its gradual descent.


	6. Flight

“Have you traveled first class before?” asked the woman seated on the couch across from Zepile in the airship lounge. Zepile, buried fifty item descriptions deep in a catalogue of every human flesh derived artifact confiscated by the Hunter Association and held in a vault in Swaldani City, didn’t answer. The woman cleared her throat once loudly and ceased typing. She cleared her throat again, even louder, and Zepile finally looked up.

“I’m sorry?” he asked. He dropped his feet from the low table between them in case it’d annoyed her.

“Have you ever traveled in first class before?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

“Really?” she asked. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t sound displeased. With her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, it was impossible to read her face. Zepile nodded slowly to confirm, unsure if she’d been looking for an answer.

“I could tell,” she said. “I knew it.”

“Could you?” asked Zepile. He straightened up on the matching couch across from her where he’d been half sitting, half lying down, flipping through the inventory catalogue on the tablet Mizaistom had handed him when they’d boarded and told him to start studying. Tomorrow, Zepile would see the collection in person to train his appraiser’s eye on some of the most valuable and proven authentic, collectible human body parts ever taken in by the law.

“I could absolutely tell,” said the woman. Her laptop’s screen went dark, but she didn’t wake it back up. “You’re different from the other new amateurs I’ve traveled with. Statistically most people don’t come from wealthy or elite backgrounds, so, when experiencing first class travel accommodations for the first time, they always behave a bit unnaturally. The result is they look highly suspicious, like they don’t belong. You’d think they stole their ticket.”

Zepile bookmarked his place in the catalogue, deciding to use this conversation as an opportunity for a short study break. They wouldn’t arrive in Swaldani City for a few more hours, so, he’d have plenty of time. The woman traveling with Mizaistom was still a stranger, and Zepile never missed a chance to figure out someone new and mysterious.

“Oh, I dunno about all that, thinking someone stole the ticket just because they don’t fit in,” said Zepile, leaning back comfortably and resting his arm on the back of the couch. “If someone’s competent enough to pull off stealing another person’s identity, which is what you’ll need to do to steal a ticket for an airship, I doubt they’d blow it by acting like a nervous wreck the whole time on board. The last thing you want when you’re trying to get away with a crime is attention from other people. When you act too nervous all the time, other people notice. Anxiety is infectious like that. Folks can’t help but wonder what you’re so worried about, and worse, whether or not it affects them.”

“I see,” said the woman. Her tone was too hard to be conversational, but she was clearly trying. “The best criminals would have no qualms about committing crimes. They always find a way to justify their actions and stay confident, to convince themselves that they’re somehow in the right, even if what they did was wrong.”

“It certainly helps to not have many qualms about it,” said Zepile. “Even the slightest hint of self-doubt can put people on to you.”

“Indeed,” said the woman. She smiled somewhat placating without showing teeth, the edges of her mouth going down first rather than up. Zepile noted her restraint, her distance. He wondered whether the sunglasses were there to hide her thoughts, or to hide a harsh gaze that would disturb her fellow interlocutors more than never seeing her eyes at all.

“Have you worked in crime before?” asked the woman.

“I sell antiques.”

“Oh. So, you’re a salesman?”

“There’s a little more to it than just being a salesman going door-to-door or buzzing around customers in a shop. I work for myself, which means I have to hunt for my own products, and then match them to the right buyers. It’s a whole network I have to build and keep track of on my own.”

“So then, why are you interested in crime hunting?”

Without missing a beat, Zepile recited the already agreed-upon response. “I’m interested in cracking down on fraud and illegally trafficked goods.”

“Mizaistom said you’re interested in gaining practical experience in the black market in Baleno City.”

“That’s part of it.”

“What does the human body parts market have to do with antiques, though?” asked the woman with a skeptical frown. “That’s what the black market in Baleno City is best known for, isn’t it?”

“It’s simple,” said Zepile. “Sometimes antiques are made of human beings. Almost anything you can make out of an animal can be made out of a human. Books, tools, artwork, cultural items, traditional medicines, and even…souvenirs and decorations. Not all of it’s illegal, and Relumbria has some of the lightest restrictions worldwide when it comes to trading human remains. Makes it a good place to start looking if you want to source anything of dubious legality. Then, once you find and purchase what you want there, you have access to a whole criminal network to smuggle it all back home.”

“So, you want to…” said the woman, thinking carefully, “…you want to fight the ones profiting? The criminal network? The mafia crime families? Crime Hunters don’t go after bounties or specific criminals, so you must be trying to get inside the criminal network itself so you can take it down, correct?” She hesitated a moment, and then pronounced with absolute certainty, “You’re a fool, and you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I sure hope not,” said Zepile with a nervous laugh. “Don’t jinx me.”

The woman wasn’t smiling. “I think it’s a bad idea,” she told him. “It’s dangerous and likely to fail. I think you need to reconsider.”

“For now I’m just building my network,” said Zepile. “I’m not taking down any crime families just yet. I’m just getting to know people.”

“You might be better suited for Blacklist Hunting. Have you considered it?”

Zepile wasn’t given a chance to answer, even as he sucked in a breath to speak.

“He might be,” interrupted Mizaistom, having appeared over Zepile’s shoulder with a can of green tea in his hand and a worn expression on his face. “That’s why he’s taking this practicum, to see if he’s more suited for Crime or Blacklist Hunting. I’ve taken him on provisionally until he makes his choice.”

The woman looked over her lenses at Mizaistom, and Zepile was taken aback to see her eyes were full of faintly glowing circuits. She flicked the sunglasses back up into place, but Zepile was already staring stupidly at her, his mouth hanging open. A hand on his shoulder jolted him back to reality.

“How’s your studying?” asked Mizaistom. Zepile nearly dropped the tablet from his lap as he scrambled to turn it back on.

“Excellent,” said Zepile. “It’s exactly as weird as I thought it would be, but then, the world’s a weird place. If antique trading has taught me anything after so many years, it’s that people are weird, and they make weird stuff.”

Mizaistom smiled at this, which Zepile was discovering wasn’t such a rare thing for Mizaistom to do. Though Mizaistom was generally impersonal as a rule, he didn’t restrain himself from expressing positive emotion in the proper contexts. Since Zepile had started working with Mizaistom approximately four hours ago, he’d seen the man smile three separate times. Two of those times had been Mizaistom being polite. The other been had at a comment from his protégé, the woman with the sunglasses, though Zepile hadn’t understood the context. 

“You’ll have two days, if you need them, to study the items at the Hunter Association headquarters,” Mizaistom reminded Zepile, hand still heavy on Zepile’s shoulder. “Looking at our schedule, though, I’d prefer if you could get it done in only one day, if you think that’s possible.”

“I’m a quick study,” said Zepile. “But, even for me, one day could be a challenge. In the name of saving time, though, I’ll focus on antiques. I already have a base of knowledge I can use there. The newer and fresher stuff is more likely to be illegal, and you said I’m not trading anything outright illegal, so, that stuff will probably be a waste of time.”

“I trust your judgment,” said Mizaistom. He removed his hand from Zepile’s shoulder and went to sit down next to the women in the sunglasses. She gave him a quick up and down glance, as though scanning him for something, and then shrugged and returned to her research on the computer.

“I’m sending a security team to Baleno City next week,” said Mizaistom to Zepile. “I just finished finalizing their contract now. I’ll be coming and going from the city to check in on them, so if you have any problems, I’ll be around. You’ll also have to report to me every couple of days. Once we see how quickly you progress—or don’t—we’ll decide on a set contact schedule. That way, if you’re in danger, I’ll know when you don’t check in.”

“You’re treating him like a baby,” complained the woman without looking up. Her fingers flew over the keys as she spoke, typing with full independence of what she was saying.  “I can’t believe you think this is a good idea if you’re so worried about him getting into trouble.”

“He can’t use Nen,” said Mizaistom. The woman’s typing stopped.

“Wait,” she said, aghast. “You’re letting this man infiltrate the black market, and he can’t use Nen?”

Mizaistom didn’t interrupt the long sip of tea he’d begun taking to answer her right away. The woman grumbled impatiently.

“In the criminal world,” said Mizaistom once he’d finished, “when someone can use Nen, it puts that person in another class, and the circumstances around them adjust accordingly. Those in power are aware of Nen, though not always by name, and they even seek to hire Nen-users specifically for certain jobs. Typically, such powerful people send their Nen-users after other Nen-users. You don’t waste your elite by sending them off to chase after lesser vermin.”

“And I presume I’m the lesser vermin in that statement,” said Zepile unhappily.

“You are,” Mizaistom assured him as he hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees after putting his empty can of tea on the table.

“But, I’ve used Nen,” said Zepile. The sudden alarm on Mizaistom’s face shocked him. After a second of speechlessness, he rushed to clarify. “Not on purpose, though, and not to fight people.” Mizaistom didn’t seem to relax by much. “I mean,” explained Zepile slower, noting that even the woman had looked up from her computer to watch him, “I’ve used it before on accident. In…uh, artwork. I’m told I’ve made some artwork that’s imbued with Nen.”

“You’re an artist?” asked the woman. It was hard to tell if she was intrigued or incredulous.

“In a sense maybe.”

“What sort of sense?”

“I’m not known for it. I don’t make art now.”

The woman tilted her head to the side curiously. “It’s odd,” she said, “that you’d use Nen to create art when it’s not your primary interest in life.”

“I was very interested in certain aspects of art for, uh, for a time.”

“But you just stopped? Outright?”

“Yes.”

The woman lowered her head and looked at Zepile over her sunglasses, her mechanical eyes boring into him with such stern intensity he hardly remembered to breathe. Lasers could’ve fired from her eyes and killed him that instant, and he’d have made no move to save himself, even as he'd watched her pupils glow over entire passing seconds, powering up.

“There’s something suspicious,” she said. “I’m not sure which part exactly.”

“Please, leave him alone,” said Mizaistom to the woman. She pressed her sunglasses back into place, turned away, and resumed typing. Mizaistom glanced back over to Zepile, the intensity of his own stare equally as unnerving as his student’s. A second later, however, he relaxed and gave a small shrug.

“You certainly don’t radiate aura like a competent Nen-user would, but it’s evident you have some latent ability now that I know to look for it. It’s very weak, though. It probably only shows up when you make ‘art’, or whatever it is you were using your Nen for in the past.”

“Is that bad?”

“Probably not. You’d never be mistaken for a Nen-user under normal circumstances. Amateurs will be too inexperienced to see it, and professionals will hopefully know the difference between a Genius and someone trained. At the same time, though, please, try not to get yourself into any situation where people are wondering if you can use Nen. Nen-users tend to overthink and over-react when they suspect they may be facing a covert Nen-user. If anyone mentions Nen to you, act like you have no idea what it is. It’s safer to just not even know the word.”

“What’s a Nen?” asked Zepile with a fake smile. Mizaistom nodded back sincerely in approval, ruining the joke. Zepile gave up and unlocked the tablet, ready to return to work.

While Zepile forced himself to read more item descriptions, Mizaistom slid down the couch away from his student and closer to the airship window. He rested his head in his left hand and stared at the passing nighttime landscape, ruminating in silence over nothing that showed on his face. Zepile, curious and bored with studying, glanced out the window, as well. All he saw were homesteads and sparsely illuminated streets creeping past. He wondered what was so immersive about it all that Mizaistom ended up failing to look away once for the next ten minutes.

“I’m thirsty,” announced Zepile. He'd just spotted Mizaistom’s finished can of tea in the reflection of the airship lounge and had been inspired. “I’m going to go get something. Be back in a few.”

“Stay,” said Mizaistom, sitting up and motioning for Zepile remain seated. He leaned across the table to take his empty can with him and stood up. “I’ll go. You have a lot to read and look over, and then you should try to sleep. We’ll hit the ground running tomorrow, so you’ll need to be ready.”

“It’s fine,” insisted Zepile. “It won’t take long. I need to stretch my legs.”

Mizaistom considered this a moment before conceding. “Ok,” he said. He handed the empty can off to Zepile and sat back down. “Don’t buy anything with caffeine. You need to sleep. And don’t buy alcohol. You need to study.”

“C'mon, you really are treating me like a kid. I’m a responsible adult, you know. Don’t I look like a responsible adult?”

Mizaistom didn’t answer, but the expression on his face said everything Zepile need to know.

“You know, you’re kind of a jerk, actually,” said Zepile. “Don’t give me that look. I’m not going to swindle the concession counter out of their drinks. Not unless they’ve got antique cola on flights into Swaldani City to tempt me with.”

“Ah, so you’re a swindling antiques dealer?” asked the woman in sunglasses, butting in before Mizaistom could argue.

“Sure,” said Zepile. The heavy can in his hand crinkled as he gripped it tighter. “People always go ahead and assume that anyway when your job is selling them anything, not matter how honest you are.”

Mizaistom made a move as if to say something, but Zepile cut him off.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to defend yourself. I’m used to people not really trusting me, especially when I’m working with people who don’t know anything about my business. But,” here, instead of speaking to both, Zepile turned to just Mizaistom, “I don’t like being treated like someone reckless that you have to keep your eyes on all the time, or else they’ll get into trouble, like a kid. Calm down and just let me get a damn bottle of water and stretch my legs.”

Zepile didn’t wait for a response. He turned on his heel and marched away, tossing the empty can into the first trash receptacle he passed loud enough for Mizaistom to hear it clank twice against the inside of the bin as it plummeted.

“I can’t believe you think training someone you don’t even respect is a good idea,” said the woman in sunglasses without looking at Mizaistom. “He’ll probably become a Blacklist Hunter just to avoid you. At least then he’ll be in like-minded company.”

Mizaistom didn’t reply as he turned away and looked out the window. The woman in the sunglasses paused for a second, waiting, and then continued her work.


	7. Hunter Association Headquarters

Mizaistom had left Zepile to his own devices in the Hunter Association vaults, having only stuck around enough to escort him to the entrance and then transfer full responsibility of him to the guards and storage area staff. The rest of Mizaistom’s day was spent wrapping up a few neglected work assignments, touching base briefly with Cheadle over coffee, and finalizing the travel itinerary and accommodation details for Zepile’s trip to Baleno City.

Mizaistom was happy at least that he and Zepile wouldn’t be lingering longer than twenty-four hours in Swaldani City. After reviewing the catalogue and narrowing down his list, Zepile had decided he’d only need a single day in the vaults to see everything relevant to his mission. The only drawback was finding time to do laundry after spending all day in the vaults, since leaving Leorio’s so suddenly had left him with a suitcase full of unwashed clothes and nothing left to wear.

Mizaistom had told Zepile not to worry and taken the suitcase for him, promising to send everything to be cleaned while Zepile finished work. The suitcase was in Mizaistom’s hand now, again, as he traveled down to the vaults to collect Zepile that the evening.

“Here you go, that ought to be everything,” said Mizaistom. He held the suitcase out to Zepile, who'd just retrieved his personal bag, a low-hanging satchel, from the vault guards’ safe. Zepile accepted the suitcase with a polite, distracted thanks, and Mizaistom lead the way down the hall.

“There are accommodations for visiting Hunters at headquarters, so, you’ll be staying here tonight. We leave tomorrow at five in the morning. Did you get a chance to see everything in the vault you needed to?”

“I’ve seen a lot,” groaned Zepile. Mizaistom hardly heard it. Zepile's voice was low and heavy with exhaustion, but he raised it reluctantly when he saw Mizaistom frown and lean down to listen. “Don’t bother getting me dinner or anything. I don’t have an appetite. I’m tired, and I want to sleep, and I don’t even know if I’ll be able to.”

Mizaistom frowned, not understanding. “Weren’t you mostly looking at artifacts?” he asked. “Surely that wasn’t all that strenuous.”

“Yeah, but, have you ever been in there? In the vault?” asked Zepile. Mizaistom shook his head. “It’s a storeroom with a table by the door so you can sit down with items. After that, there’s shelves and shelves of boxes. Some of the stuff they’ve got, though, it doesn’t fit in the boxes. And some of _that_ stuff…has faces.”

“They’re human remains. It’s to be expected.”

“Yeah, well, some are more human than others. Gives me the creeps. I had to sit alone with that stuff all day.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah. They had me rummaging around all by myself with the inventory list to guide me. Mostly it was alright, I guess. But, sometimes, I’d pull down the wrong box and look inside and…shit. Not what I was expecting at all.”

“That sounds like a good incentive to make sure you’ve got the right box before pulling it down.”

“ _You bet_ ,” said Zepile. The subsequent rueful laugh was short-lived. “I didn’t make that mistake more than twice. Two times was plenty. Damn. Oh hey, wait, hold one one sec....”

Zepile stopped and adjusted the satchel on his shoulder before it slipped down his arm. It hung loosely off of him, as if it were mostly empty except for one end that was clearly weighed down by something heavy. Whatever was inside, it thudded hard against Zepile's leg as he walked, though he ignored it. Mizaistom remembered a mysterious bundle Zepile had removed from his suitcase on the flight while consolidating his dirty clothes into one bag for Mizaistom to take. Mizaistom hadn’t thought much of it since, but now, he was curious. What could be so important or valuable Zepile wouldn’t trust someone as honest and dependable as Mizaistom Nana with it for a day?

“Something in your bag is giving off a slight glow of aura,” said Mizaistom as he and Zepile entered an elevator. Zepile set his suitcase down on the ground between them and drew the satchel closer.

“It’s nothing,” said Zepile, implying it was nothing he felt like talking about with Mizaistom.

“I doubt that very much. Does it belong to you? Originally?”

“Of course it does. Are you trying to say I stole it?”

“Is it a weapon?”

“No. It’s just something I picked up when I was visiting Leorio. I’m serious. It’s _nothing_.”

The elevator tone announced the arrival to their floor. Mizaistom stepped through the doors ahead of Zepile, who had to scramble to collect his suitcase and drag it after him. He leapt free of the doors right as they began to shut and was forced to trot to keep up with Mizaistom, who'd already resumed walking. Mizaistom lead the way down the hall to a cramped room at the end, barely larger than a closet and sparse in its amenities like a monastic cell. Seeing it for the first time, Zepile immediately understood why Mizaistom had so vaguely referred to such an arrangement only as “accommodations” rather than accidentally setting Zepile's expectations too high by calling it a "room". 

Since Zepile had said he was tired, Mizaistom introduced him to his two options if he wanted to take a seat: a single narrow bed along the wall and a solitary wooden chair in the corner next to the sink. Zepile remained standing. He set down his suitcase between his feet so he could cross his arms, mimicking Mizaistom’s own typical stance back at him as he stared him down. Mizaistom pursed his lips and turned to shut the door firmly behind them.

“Here’s the problem,” said Mizaistom indicating the satchel still pressed close to Zepile’s side. “You’re being too defensive about whatever that is, which makes me suspicious. The second a Nen-user detects aura, they’re immediately on their guard and considering the worst, and you’re exacerbating the problem when you argue and evade.”

“Nen-users sound really touchy,” said Zepile with an indifferent shrug. "They don't know how to mind their own business."

“They’re also dangerous,” warned Mizaistom. “You aren’t a trained Nen-user, and items imbued with Nen aren’t something people casually ‘pick up’ somewhere. If you’re planning to bring something like whatever is in your bag around with you everywhere when you’re in Baleno City, it will cause a problem. Most people will assume it’s a weapon first, especially if you’re working with criminals.”

“It’s trash,” said Zepile, louder than he'd spoken all day. He glared at Mizaistom as he swung the satchel forward and removed the bundle inside, which he hastily unwrapped. “See?” he said, holding the item up. “It’s a sculpture of a damn cow. Unless it’s got magical Nen bludgeoning properties, you have nothing to worry about. But hey, we can always test it out to be sure. Hold still.”

A yellow card flashed forward. Mizaistom lifted it up high to make sure Zepile saw. “Don’t make any move towards me,” he cautioned.

“Oh, really? You think I’m actually going to hit you with this piece of junk?” demanded Zepile. He rolled his eyes at Mizaistom’s overreaction, already tossing the protective cloth back around the sculpture loosely before tucking it away into his bag. “There’s Hunters in the antiques world, you know,” he said, “but absolutely no-one likes to work with them. I think I can sort of see why.”

“It’s a dangerous profession,” said Mizaistom. He slipped the yellow card back into his jacket pocket. “It’s in our own bylaws themselves that we must possess significant martial prowess. We’re always on our guard.”

“Yeah, well, it’s useless to be on your guard around me,” said Zepile. He tossed the satchel onto the bed and sat down beside it. “I’m not stupid,” he explained. “I’m not going to pick a fight with a Hunter or anyone on that level. You’re the idiot if you think I’d ever be so reckless with my life. I still remember how it felt when Killua knocked me out during the exam in two seconds. He’s at a Professional Hunter’s level, right?”

“Killua Zoldyck is an exceptional child. Also, very efficient.”

“Yeah,” agreed Zepile. He stared at his feet. “What a joke, though, right?” he asked. His shoulders slumped forward, revealing his exhaustion wasn't only for want of sleep. “He probably saved my life with that, too, you know? I was probably about to get myself killed taking that exam, but at the time I was only thinking ‘hey, if Leorio and Gon can pass the exam, maybe it’s not that bad’. It was a very stupid thought to have.”

Mizaistom was relieved to discover that, since taking the exam, Zepile had developed a realistic perception of his own strength and abilities compared to a fully trained Hunter. Sometimes it took examinees several tries to learn the depths of their own inadequacy. 

“But you still want to become a Hunter yourself,” said Mizaistom. “You’re still going to train.”

“Yeah. Of course. Once I’ve made my mind up, I don’t back down.”

Zepile didn’t sound especially elated at the prospect of never backing down in his quest to become a Hunter. With several small, placating nods, Mizaistom crossed his arms and leaned against the shut door behind him. He tried to read Zepile’s face when he glanced towards it, but all he could make out was the same exhaustion, both physical and mental, that had overcome Zepile after the waking nightmare of a day going through the confiscated items within the vaults.

“Why are you interested in it?” asked Mizaistom after a pause. “What’s your reason to become a Hunter?”

“Are you examining me?” asked Zepile. He scoffed. “You sound like all those weird guys I met in all those little preliminary tests to get to the exam.”

“It’s indeed a standard question we have our recruiters ask. Your reason must’ve been acceptable to them if you impressed a guide and made it all the way to the first phase. There’s no point to keep it a secret.”

“There might not be a point, but that doesn’t mean you aren't going to judge me for my reason anyway, and I’m tired of your bad opinion. Rather not put fuel on that fire.”

Zepile held up a hand for Mizaistom to stop before he spoke. Mizaistom obeyed but didn't hide his impatience as Zepile examined the room around him, thinking something over as he took in the few details available in the small space. He spent the most time taking stock of the sink, then the bedside table, and finally the rack for clothes to Mizaistom’s right, before he finally worked out what he wanted to say and met Mizaistom's eyes.

“Hey, so,” he said, “is there someplace like a Hunter bar around here? I need a drink. You should join me. I think we need to talk, clear up some things, but this isn’t really the place.”

“This place is as good as any,” said Mizaistom dubiously.

“What I mean is, I’ll never get to sleep afterwards if I pick a fight in here.”

Zepile’s mocking laugh interrupted Mizaistom before Mizaistom could speak. “Calm down. I’m joking,” he said while Mizaistom frowned at him disapprovingly. “You and I do needed to have a talk, though. I’m not a guy who sits on this kind of stuff and lets it fester when I’m working for someone. I’m a big fan of communication.”

“Have you changed your mind about helping me? You can save time and tell me right now if you’re backing out.”

“Not a chance,” said Zepile. The faint flash of uncompromised resolve in Zepile's eyes was enough that Mizaistom would’ve believed him even without a longer explanation. “I promised Leorio I’d help. I shook hands with you and agreed to take the job. I don’t go back on my word. So, no, you don’t have to worry that I might quit the job out of nowhere.”

“Okay, then,” said Mizaistom. He pushed himself off the door and uncrossed his arms. “In that case, we’ll go to the city. I don’t think headquarters is best.”

“Can’t be seen relaxing with a drink by all the other Hunters? Too much of your hard-ass reputation at stake?”

Mizaistom turned and opened the door to leave instead of answering Zepile’s question. Behind him, Zepile sprang to his feet, snatched up his sarchel in his arms, and swung it back over his shoulder as he jogged to catch up. An elevator ride and a slow trip by taxi later, they arrived to a hotel bar across town, where Mizaistom was uncompromising in securing them a secluded booth far from the windows.

“I’m not a secretive guy, but I am a perceptive guy,” said Zepile once they’d sat down and he’d ordered himself a drink. “If I know someone won’t like what I’m going to say, I try not to say it. That’s how you have to be when your livelihood depends on the good opinion of others. You have to consider everything you say.”

“I understand,” said Mizaistom. He understood Zepile was making excuses for lying to people by telling himself it was for the good of their working relationship. He also understood Zepile was setting the stage to lie to him more from this point on. And yet, at the same time, he understood Zepile was also about to tell him the truth behind a few other lies and omissions he’d managed to tell Mizaistom in the shockingly short time they’d been acquainted.

“Okay. Good,” said Zepile. He watched Mizaistom’s expression intently, but was visibly unhappy and unassured with how little Mizaistom revealed. “So, first, I want to talk business.”

“Business?”

“I want to warn you that limiting myself to legal goods in Relumbria isn’t going to turn much of a profit. If you’ve recently paid the full retail value for anything I’m going to sell for you, you might not earn all that money back. I want you to know that, as a professional courtesy. I don’t know how much you’ve invested already, how much of a loss you’ll have to recoup, but I’m going to focus more on just barely making that money back for you rather than turning a huge profit.”

“It's fine. I’m not expecting to turn any profit. I’ve accepted I’ll lose money in this. So, you can stick to legal goods without concerning yourself with my bottom line.”

Zepile frowned, not sure how to break the news that he found Mizaistom's plan far from optimum. “Are you sure?" he asked. "The black market is all illegal or restricted goods. Even without considering the matter of profit, you might want to think about—”

“No,” said Mizaistom’s firmly before Zepile could finish contorting himself through a drawn out, polite manner of asking Mizaistom to let him work as a criminal. ”You’re prohibited from buying or selling anything illegal while working for me. If it somehow gets out that I’ve supported you, and that you’re dealing in illegal goods, I’ll become an accessory to your crime.”

“Alright, alright, okay,” said Zepile, holding up his hands. “I get that. I swear. But, serious question here: How am I supposed to get into the black market if I’m staying totally within the law?”

“Find a means to talk your way in. You won't need to buy and sell your way in,” said Mizaistom. Zepile scoffed incredulously at how simple and straightforward Mizaistom made this sound like it would be. “I need you to talk to people, spread a rumor about a collector of Kurta eyes. That should be enough to compel our target to seek you out himself, rather than you going directly to him.”

“And how am I supposed to know his people from the people other folks interested in the eyes might send to talk to me? Because, I doubt a guy as hard to reach as Kurapika is going to just show up at my door. He’s more cautious than that.”

“I’m hoping that’s where the fact that he knows you might come into play. He might come to you himself, since you’re a friend of his friends.”

“Maybe…,” said Zepile doubtfully. “But that’s putting a lot to chance, you know? My livelihood depends on buying things cheap and hopefully selling them for a profit, so really, I’m not someone averse to taking a few gambles once in a while. But, this? This is a bit close even for me. There’s a lot of factors here.”

A server interrupted them bearing Zepile’s beer and Mizaistom’s hot tea. From a pocket in his coat, Mizaistom removed a single pot of his true dairy, buffalo-derived creamer. Zepile, who’d been watching from the corner of his eye and waiting for this moment, grinned into his first sip of beer.

“You’re crazy about that stuff,” he said as he lowered his glass. “No wonder. You even dress like a cow. That’s dedication.”

“This isn’t why I dress like I do.”

“But it must play a part, right? You’ve definitely got a theme going on.”

Mizaistom took a deep breath as he dunked the teabag in and out of the small teapot in front of him, forcing the water to circulate through it once before he let it go to steep one its own. “I’m a member of the Zodiacs,” he said primly, “a team of twelve advisors personally selected by the late Hunter Association Chairman, Isaac Netero. We’ve each been assigned codenames corresponding to an animal of the zodiac. I’m the Ox.”

“Oh, so, there’s eleven more people like you? And you all dress up like this?”

“Some more, some less, but not all. And currently we only have nine members. The new chairman is working to recruit two more before our next mission.”

“What’s your next mission? Are you even allowed to tell me that?”

“I can. Have you heard of the Kakin Empire? We’re joining them on their expedition to settle the Dark Continent.”

“Damn. Really? That’s true? There’s really a Dark Continent?” asked Zepile. He set his beer down and leaned forward, interested to hear more. Mizaistom just nodded curtly and didn't clarify, but Zepile didn't seem to mind very much. “Wow," he said. "I guess that’s cool. You hear about the Dark Continent in antiques sometimes, you know. Some people claim they have artifacts from there. They say they’re the remains of ancient human civilizations, and that all of the greatest civilizations in history originated from the Dark Continent. Actually, some people think all the gods we used to believe in were based on our encounters with travellers from advanced civilizations on the Dark Continent. How else could ancient people make all those pyramids, or the Nazka lines, or that huge geoglyph of a giant in the Atakama that’s apparently a calendar? I mean, if it’s not space aliens….”

Zepile trailed off dramatically, waving the free hand not wrapped around his drink in a mockingly mysterious fashion. He had a short laugh at the absurdity of the theories people had come up with to explain the confounding traces left behind by ancient civilizations which defied their modern, biased assumptions of the past as being extremely primitive and limited. He took another long sip of beer while Mizaistom watched his tea slowly steep.

“Anyway,” said Zepile. “You’re not the kind of person who believes all that, Mizaistom. I can tell. Hunters are weird, but they aren’t crazy enough to believe that aliens or seafaring giants from some other mysterious continent built the pyramids.”

Mizaistom removed the teabag from the small teapot and carefully set down the lid. “Have you ever seen an artifact that somebody claimed was from the Dark Continent?” he asked as he poured his first cup.

“No,” said Zepile. “I was never interested. What business do I have messing with rare, ancient artifacts? I don’t have buyers for that kind of stuff. I buy and sell classic antiques, like art and tableware and retro electronics. Real, ancient artifacts belong in the hands of professionals and institutions, not collectors. Selling that stuff off to the highest bidder is the kind of thing that happens on the black market.”

“It is,” agreed Mizaistom. He held up the pot of creamer so Zepile wouldn’t miss him pour it into his cup. Zepile grinned and saluted him with his beer.

“I’m still interested in why you want to become a Hunter,” said Mizaistom as he stirred his tea and creamer together. He took a break to wrap the empty pot in a napkin and set it to the side. “Tell me why.”

“I dunno. Why did you become a Hunter?” asked Zepile back. 

“I wanted to protect people from criminals,” said Mizaistom. He didn't need any time whatsoever to consider his answer. “I wanted to fight against crime and do what’s right.”

“I see,” said Zepile slowly. He was leery of the somewhat rehearsed aspect of Mizaistom’s quick response. “And now you’re stuck working with a swindling antiques trader to hunt down a mafia boss through the black market. What a shame.”

“...I’ve had worse missions.”

“I bet you have.”

Zepile finished the last of his drink in one final go and asked the server for another. Though Zepile had been talkative and smiling since they’d entered the bar, Mizaistom had noticed a persistent, anxious energy behind his actions. It gave their conversation a forced feeling Mizaistom distrusted. He watched without comment, sipping his tea, as Zepile eagerly accept his next drink and hurried to begin it before he was ready to say anything else.

“Okay,” said Zepile. “I’m going to tell you the true reason why I want to take the Hunter Exam, because you’re a Hunter, and it seems like it really matters to you.”

Mizaistom nodded as he lifted his cup of tea.

“I don’t really want to be a Hunter.”

Mizaistom set his tea back down without taking a sip and stared at Zepile with a stern, searching look.

“I want to sell the license,” said Zepile. He was looking at the drinks on the table and not back up at Mizaistom. “That’s the reason I want to pass the exam. I want to sell the license to increase my capital so that I can buy nicer stuff that sells for bigger profits. I don’t hate combing antique markets for finds, but the profit margin can be really narrow. Narrow enough to make you nervous for a while. Hell, it makes me anxious just thinking about it.”

“Is that why you originally turned to counterfeiting?”

Zepile had already expected Mizaistom to come to this conclusion. He took a deep breath and nodded while half-gesturing to the satchel on the bench beside him, tucked away safely between Zepile and the wall.

“Were you trying to sell that counterfeit to someone when you were visiting Leorio?”

“No, I really, honestly bought it. I already told you that. I even have the receipt.”

“Why did you buy a counterfeit?”

“Because I always buy my own counterfeits when I find them. I pay nearly the full asking price, too. I never even point out they're fakes.”

“And, just to confirm, that’s the sort of ‘artwork’ you mentioned yesterday evening during the flight, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Which means you were so fastidious about making accurate counterfeits that your extreme care and focus imbued those items with your own aura.”

“Perhaps?” said Zepile uncertainly. “I only vaguely know how Nen works, but that sounds right enough to me. I’ll take your word for it. I didn’t even know my aura was in those items until Gon and Killua told me.”

“Amazing,” muttered Mizaistom as he lifted up his cup of tea once more. “To have such dedication to your criminality….”

“Hey, now. I’d say it was my immense fear of getting caught and having my entire reputation ruined before I’d even built a name for myself. The counterfeits had to be really, really good.”

“Nen is inextricably tied to the strength of a person’s will. That could be true.”

Zepile grumbled and sat back, bringing his beer with him as he slouched into his seat. “Yeah,” he said. “My will not to starve to death and die penniless in the street was probably really strong. Correct.”

“That doesn’t excuse resorting to crime.”

“Who are you to judge if it does or doesn’t?” asked Zepile. He took a sip of his beer, and then set it on the edge of the table in easy reach. “You know,” he said, waving a finger at Mizaistom, “people like you irritate me the most. You hear one thing you don’t like, and you get this look on your face. I can tell. You’re no longer interested in anything I could say, because you already see me as someone you disapprove of. You’re already thinking of the strategies you can use to help endure me, because working with me is the last thing you would’ve chosen for yourself.”

“Well….”

“You don’t trust me. I get that. I don’t like working for people who don’t trust me, but I promise to do the best I can regardless. I won’t implicate you in criminal dealings. I won’t backstab you for money. I won’t abandon my post. I’m actually a reliable and responsible guy who won’t betray the trust of anyone I’ve made an agreement with. Yeah, sure, maybe I got away with some shady dealings in the past, but I’m a man of my word once I give it, and you have my word that I’ll do everything in my power not to let you or Leorio down. Hell, Senritsu really wants Leorio to find Kurapika more than anything, too, and that means you need to find Kurapika to make that happen. I won’t do anything, ever, to jeopardize that. Am I clear?”

Mizaistom had finished his cup of tea. He set it down with a soft clink and refilled it, taking the second without cream. When Zepile finally finished talking, he let the cup go and stared at him over it. Mizaistom approved of the look of resolve in Zepile's face, though he knew better than to trust a proven thief and liar’s best intentions.

“I understand,” said Mizaistom. “I believe you.”

Zepile scoffed and shook his head.

“No,” said Zepile plainly, “you don’t. Now you just think I’m lying to myself.”

With a heavy sigh, Zepile took his beer and drank it in silence. He didn’t say a word until he was finished, and even then, it was only to suggest they go back so that he could try to get some sleep. Try, he stressed, was the operative word. He doubted it would be easy.


	8. Criminality

The Hunter website barman was once again playing at law-profession dress up, this time donning the red, ermine-lined robes of a supreme court judge from a country where Mizaistom had never practiced. He languidly picked through the fur on his sleeves for specks of dust and debris while Mizaistom re-read the final report on the 288th Hunter Exam which the barman had just pulled from a dusty box of neglected files.

The 288th Hunter Exam had been a record-breaker. Not only had the number of examinees been among the highest seen in over decade, but there’d also been zero exam fatalities. The passing condition the first phase examiner had given hadn’t specified sparing anyone’s lives, but Killua Zoldyck, the sole examinee to pass, had been generous and done so anyway. Upon discovering Killua was another son of the infamous Zoldyck family of assassins, the outcome of the exam had intrigued many within the Hunter Association and had become a lingering topic of discussion and debate in break rooms for the next several weeks.

Mizaistom remembered asking how the exam had gone when he’d met with Chairman Netero to spar a few days after the exam's abrupt conclusion. The old man hadn’t been able to stop chuckling to himself as he’d shared the results. He'd been perfectly pleased with the outcome of the exam despite Mizaistom’s own predictable reservations about a second son of the world famous Zoldyck family becoming a certified Hunter. In his typical, whimsical manner, Netero had brushed off all concerns and suggested he and Mizaistom play a game of keep-away with a volleyball instead of their usual sparring match. After a bit of convincing, Mizaistom agreed, though he could now no longer recall what the condition would've been if he’d won. It’d been impossible to get the ball away from Netero anyway, as he'd already known it would be, especially when the old man was already in such a good mood and wanting to show off rather than properly train.

“I’m looking for an applicant named Zepile,” said Mizaistom. The barman jumped to attention, his robes swishing dramatically around him as he spun to check the bookshelf behind him. With effort, he pulled down a weighty tome, the exaggerated visual representation of the total recorded applicant files. It landed on the desk with a hard, solid thud that shook the rendered office around the barman like the short tremor of a distant earthquake. Mizaistom sighed as the barman struggled to heave the book open, indicating a lag as the file loaded.

“Zepile with a ‘z’,” said Mizaistom as the barman began to search the alphabetized tabs along the outer margins with an unsure expression. Much more quickly, the barman flipped to the proper section, tucking the edge of his fluffy cloak between his chest and the table before reading aloud.

“As a first time examinee, our information about Zepile starts with the date and time he arrived to his first pre-exam test, continues with his results in that and subsequent tests, and then ends in a summary stating that his attention to detail and outgoing personality impressed the guides enough to consider him worthy of submitting on to the exam.”

“What were his results in the tests?”

“Zepile’s noted as having had a high innate aptitude for using Nen, though it was likely to be something unconscious and unknown to him, which is common in the case of Nen Geniuses. The guides who admitted him classified him as having a minimal chance of passing, being highly unlikely to progress past the second phase, though he was also in an excellent position to learn a great deal for future attempts. His risk of dying in this first attempt was extraordinarily high as well; he was noted to posses zero combat capabilities. At three separate points his guides attempted to dissuade him and warn him of the danger of the exam, but Zepile repeatedly elected to submit himself regardless, and was escorted to the exam site the next morning.”

“Is there any information on Zepile’s occupation?”

“The full application he submitted lists him as an antiques trader.”

“Run a criminal background check using the personal information supplied in his application.”

The barman shot Mizaistom a disgruntled look from beneath the gold rim of his round judge’s hat. He pushed his chair back loudly and stood from the desk, but idled for nearly a minute straightening his robes before he took a single step. He lifted his chin high as he marched to the office door, swung it open, and instantly entered another room lined on two sides with high-density sliding shelves. Mizaistom recognized the room and knew the procedure by heart as he watched the barman read over the inscriptions on each row and roll the shelves aside until he came to the correct aisle. He entered and then, a moment later, stepped out with a slim manila folder containing only a few papers and none of the colorful tabs that designated the various highlights in the criminal histories of the sorts of people Mizaistom typically had reason to look up.

“One arrest, no convictions. One parking ticket, fully paid off.”

Mizaistom grumbled to himself, disappointed but not surprised. Zepile had played it very safe while selling his counterfeits, never getting rich enough to raise any real suspicion that would put his professional reputation at risk. In a new bid to increase Mizaistom’s trust in him, Zepile had explained the basics about how he’d worked in cash transactions, had never used his actual name, and hadn’t presented himself as an antiques trader to his buyers, but rather as someone who’d come across the item he hoped to sell at the estate sale of a wealthy individual from another town. No-one buying had truly believed him, especially not after he’d insisted on a quick cash transaction, but Zepile had anticipated that and made the effort to layer another, subtler lie into the fabric of the first as an ingenious way of explaining himself without having to give an actual explanation: He’d implied to everyone beyond a shadow of a doubt that the item had, at some point, been stolen.

As he’d spun it to Mizaistom on the flight to Baleno City, Zepile had merely been taking advantage of the existing greed of unscrupulous dealers who saw him as an unwitting petty criminal trying to offload items he’d stolen in other towns while having no real idea of their actual worth. Of course the dealers had had to give him an amount worth his while, since Zepile supposedly knew, after having stolen them himself, that the items were top quality from a rich home. The dealers were under no obligation, however, to pay him full retail value, and in their estimations had got away with what for all intents seemed to be a quality item at a bargain price.

In a shocking and upsetting twist, Zepile's counterfeit items had continued to pass as originals even after he’d sold them and skipped town. The flaws and obvious signs of faking Zepile could see in his work were somehow rendered invisible in the eyes of professionals and collectors alike, and this turn of events, instead of emboldening Zepile, had caused him to feel an odd sense of dread about the whole thing. For a while, he’d doubted his own ability to appraise items and guarantee their authenticity, since theoretically, better, more professional counterfeits would’ve been even harder to detect than his own (by his estimation) slapdash work. In the end, he’d moved away from counterfeits entirely, unnerved by how successful he’d been at creating them, and unable to handle the anxiety of waiting for someone, anyone, to finally catch on, to see everything wrong he saw in his own work, and then trace it back to the source.

Zepile, feeling dramatic after a few in-flight drinks to calm his nerves while sharing what he considered the most upsetting and bizarre story of his life, had then set the sculpture of the cow on the table between them and asked Mizaistom to look at it and see if he could tell it was a fake. Mizaistom had cast a reluctant glance over the sculpture and shrugged, admitting he didn’t have an eye for antiques. Zepile hadn’t cared. He’d launched into a tedious explanation of each and every supposedly obvious sign that gave away the sculpture’s inauthenticity. Mizaistom had again, and then repeatedly, insisted that he simply couldn’t see what Zepile was talking about. It wasn’t long before he’d come to realize it was Zepile’s tipsiness that made Zepile so insistent, and he’d sent him to a sleeping cabin to recover before they arrived in Baleno City.

“Ehem,” said the robed barman, clearing his throat as he stood with the open folder cradled in his arms. Mizaistom had lapsed into thoughtful silence after the file had been read to him, and the computer was getting tired of waiting. A second later, it went into sleep mode as the barman sighed, took a seat on the floor, and nodded off. Mizaistom was about to prod him awake when his cellphone rang, pulling him away from the computer as the screen went black.

“Anything to report?” asked Mizaistom. He checked his watch and realized it was already evening in Baleno City, right on time for Zepile to call and give his daily update.

“Not much,” said Zepile, his voice heavy as if he'd just been yawning before Mizaistom had picked up. “Never anything, really. Pretty boring out here. You should’ve given me a stipend for the casinos. They’re legal and absolutely everywhere. I’d have more luck making money in one of them than with any of these dealers.”

“Have you sold to any new dealers yet?”

“Not since Monday, but I’m meeting someone later tonight, after her shop closes. I was over there earlier. She asked me to bring around the Tooth Fairy.”

“The what?”

“Remember that wire rat made of teeth?”

“Oh.”

“It might be worth something as like, an arts-and-crafts kind of thing. Some dental surgeons decorate their offices with that kind of stuff around here to show how popular they are with tooth extraction.”

“Is that true?”

“Hell, I wish it weren’t. I checked it out myself and asked at different offices trying to get an idea of a fair price for something like that. Rats are a common motif. In some places, instead of a fairy, it’s a rat that collects kids' teeth when they fall out.”

“Do you think you’ll make the sale?”

“Yeah. Shouldn’t be an issue.”

“And have you got a lead on a buyer for Scarlet Eyes?”

“I...I haven’t really mentioned those to anyone yet.”

In the silence of his empty office hours away in Swaldani City, Mizaistom was free to sigh as loud and exasperatedly as he wanted. He made sure Zepile heard him. “Why haven’t you?” he asked. “That’s your entire job.”

“I’ll mention the eyes after this dealer pays for the rat and the transaction’s pretty much winding down. It sounds better to throw that sort of thing in conversationally after doing business.”

“What do you mean it ‘sounds better’?”

“You mention that stuff too soon, people get worried. They feel like you’re saying they look like the kind of person who’s involved in illegal goods. Feels like a trap.”

“It seems like it wastes a lot of time. You shouldn’t worry about making a whole elaborate sale before mentioning the eyes to a promising dealer. It’ll take too long to spread the word around that way. If they’re interested, even if they don’t show you, they’ll still tell the right people later.”

“Oh, sure,” said Zepile sarcastically. Mizaistom was too far away to retaliate with a disapproving look. “But, if I want to make sales and get along with people, I have to maybe not indirectly accuse them of being involved in the black market the second I meet them.”

Mizaistom, simply for the sake of urgency it never failed to instill in him, looked over to the calendar on his office wall. December was coming up too fast. Before he knew it, the Zodiacs would once again convene to discuss their new mission as a group, plus two new members, or not.

“I understand your thinking, but we don’t have time for so slow of an approach,” said Mizaistom. He was trying to stay impersonal, diplomatic. “You need to spread information first and foremost, not make friends. I told you I don’t care about the sales.”

“No, you don’t really understand. It’s not about just getting along with people. This is the best and pretty much only approach I can make when I’m tied to staying on the right side of the law.” Before Mizaistom could self-righteously accuse Zepile of being unable to work within the law, Zepile went on, speaking much slower. “See, here’s the thing: If I’m too forward, well, the exact kind of people I’m trying to find will know something’s off, and they won’t trust me. The word about the eyes won’t get out because no-one will want anything to do with me or my supposed Scarlet Eyes connection. It will feel like a trap. They will avoid me.”

“The word only needs to reach one person in particular, someone who will react to even the slightest hint. You don’t need to guard your reputation so much.”

“But reputation is everything, Mizaistom. You don’t get it, so, on your side, you need to just be patient and deal with the fact that, as long as I’m trading legal goods, it’s going to be slow out here. The money will be slow, the sales will be slow, and the progress will be slow. That’s just how it is. You want me to get mixed up with criminals without actually committing any crimes? Okay, fine, but that’s hard. I’m doing my best, but these limitations are going to hold me back for a while. Do you understand?”

“What do you want, then?” asked Mizaistom. He thought he was beginning to see the real problem now, which annoyed him even as it filled him with a rewarding sense of vindication. “Do you want permission to break the law to make things easier? Is that what you’re asking me for?”

“No,” said Zepile with a groan. “Of course not. I’ll follow the rules, keep your money clean, all that. I just want to make it clear that, if you really want everything to happen a lot faster out here, I’ll have to do something illegal. That’s the only quick and easy way to get through this mission. I never said I liked the idea myself or wanted it to happen. I’m just keeping things realistic here. You need to adjust your expectations to fit the reality. I'm just a normal guy, not even a Hunter. Keep in mind that average human limits apply to me.”

All Mizaistom was hearing were excuses. He glowered at the calendar on the wall as he spoke, no longer fighting off the suspicion that he knew what Zepile was truly saying. He needed to nip Zepile's natural, criminal tendencies in the bud before they created trouble.

“Zepile,” said Mizaistom, calling his name as if Zepile were storming out of his office door, “if you use my money to break the law, I won’t hesitate to take you to court myself and charge you with fraud. Of course people will wonder why I had a contract with a trader to sell collectable human body parts in Baleno City, but I can live with it. You, on the other hand, will end up in jail with a conviction that will follow you for the rest of your life.”

There was a long pause on the other end filled only with the sound of Zepile's slow, deep breaths to calm himself before potentially blurting out something in response that Mizaistom was sure Zepile would regret. It was so quiet in Mizaistom's office that he could easily pick out the rustle of movement and footsteps as Zepile stood up with the phone in his hand. He heard a tap being turned on and the unmistakable sound of Zepile splashing his face with water a few times and muttering something Mizaistom couldn’t catch. When Zepile’s voice finally returned, there was a slight tremor to it. Mizaistom couldn’t discern which emotion it could be, if it were muted anger or worry, over the sound of the water that was still running.

“Okay,” said Zepile on the exhale of another deep breath. “Shit. Look. You’re getting into your mood where you get unreasonable and try to manage every detail on my side of things here on the ground like you have any idea how my job works. I don’t want to argue about it right now. Tonight I’ll meet with the dealer, and hopefully she can put me in touch with more of the right people, the kind of folks whose talk reaches the ears of mafia bosses. Alright? Now, I’m going to go somewhere and eat something, because I’ve been walking around all day, and I’m tired, and in a couple hours I have to head out again. I need to maybe try to find a way to relax in the meantime, and, no offense, but talking to you isn’t the ticket. So, bye. I’ll update you tomorrow unless some miracle happens. See you. I’m hanging up.”

Zepile didn’t wait for Mizaistom to speak before ending the call. Alone, Mizaistom shook his head at no-one and put his phone down. He didn’t care to call Zepile back just to get the last word in. If anything happened, he trusted Zepile would call him with the details. Other than that, for Mizaistom and Zepile both, there was absolutely nothing further to say.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ The so-called “no Nen” rule in effect for today's sparring session wasn’t as explicit as it might’ve appeared written down. What it meant was that special Nen abilities were off-limits, not the total use of Nen itself. When highly trained Hunters sparred with one another, it was taken for granted that Nen powered punches and Nen shielded blocks would have a natural place in the swapping of blows. It wouldn’t feel like much of a fight otherwise, and it certainly wouldn’t be any fun. _

_ Naturally, Mizaistom knew that prohibiting the use of hatsus benefited him more than his opponent. As one of the top five Nen users in the entire world, Isaac Netero was famously unstoppable in an all-out Nen battle. Mizaistom wouldn’t have stood a chance against the old man’s hatsu, despite how incessantly Netero reminded him as they sparred that his skills had deteriorated in his old age. Netero wasn’t lying, of course, but at the same time, Mizaistom knew better than to think he could take the man on in a sincere, no holds barred battle to the end. _

_ Such thinking wasn’t especially useful in the midst of a sparring match. Mizaistom regretted letting his mind wander in such a direction for too long as the intimidating thought of facing off against Netero in his prime, back before Mizaistom had even been born, seeded a subtle but growing sense of doubt within him. Even now, squaring off before the chairman as an old man who waxed poetic and somewhat nonsensically about having firmly settled into the twilight of his life, there was no guarantee Mizaistom would end up winning a single round. He rarely ever won the match itself, though occasionally he came close or else managed to lose in such a compelling fashion that the chairman continued considering him a worthy sparring partner regardless. Practically no-one could defeat the chairmen outright, but, of the few who had the remotest a chance of coming close, Mizaistom ranked among the top as a chosen member of the Zodiacs. _

_ “Are you feeling lucky this afternoon, Mizai?” asked Netero with a smile. He acted as laidback as ever, as if he were planning to take it easy today, but Mizaistom knew better than to judge the man’s utter commitment to victory based on his propensity for chatter. The old man could talk through even the most challenging of battles as easily as if he were seated at a desk in an office instead. Indeed, Netero frequently scheduled sparring matches with Mizaistom in lieu of sit-down meetings, preferring to discuss important Hunter Association business while dodging attacks and outmaneuvering his opponent rather than sitting across a conference room table sipping coffees. _

_ “There’s hardly any victory condition that exists for me, so, I can't count on luck,” said Mizaistom, his voice stern as his guard remained up. “I hope to do my best.” _

_ “There are worse ways to lose than others,” said Netero with a somewhat belittling nod. He even went so far as to shut his eyes, as if daring Mizaistom to take a chance and strike. Mizaistom didn’t. Netero hardly needed to see an opponent to take them down. “And yet,” continued Netero as his eyes shot open, revealing the dangerous light below the surface, “it’s unfortunate you don’t aspire to victory, but instead wish only to mitigate loss. I’m disappointed that you don’t think you have a chance.” _

_ Netero’s antagonistic Nen bore down on Mizaistom. Without needing to speak, he admonished Mizaistom for his lack of absolute confidence, letting him know that if he didn’t think he could win, then Netero might as well make him a guarantee he wouldn't. Mizaistom let the words roll off him as well as he could, understanding that they were just as much a part of the fight as the inevitable physical blows. He focused on keeping the aura covering his body steady and strong, ready to react. Netero wouldn’t hesitate to exploit all weaknesses, whether they were tactical mistakes perceived in a flashing moment of opportunity, or a subtle waver in one’s resolve created by Netero himself as he filled the fight with conversation and calculated his first move. _

_ “I suppose I can't help it. When I battle in court for a losing client, there are other types of victory than a ‘not-guilty’ verdict,” explained Mizaistom. Unlike Netero, he struggled to keep his tone purely conversational. “You call it mitigating loss, but, at least when I lose, I’ll lose on my own terms, well within acceptable parameters.” _

_ “That’s very pragmatic of you, Mizai, and very dishonest, because we both know the truth,” said Netero. He lowered his head, and the room became so quiet Mizaistom could hear the scratch of Netero’s long, crooked beard brushing against his chest. “If you can get your client off when the case is stacked against them, even if you yourself know they’re guilty beyond doubt, you’ll take the victory simply to savor the thrill of having prevailed over your opponent so utterly in the court of law.” _

_ Before Mizaistom could move, Netero had seized his chance and shot towards him with lightning speed. Mizaistom dodged the edge of a flat hand swiping at his left arm, but missed the foot hooking around his shin and yanking his right leg out from under him just as he'd started shifting his weight to it. Before Mizaistom could even wrap his mind around what had happened, he was hitting the ground hard on his back. _

_ As quickly as he'd sprung, Netero had leapt out of Mizaistom’s reach. He was watching him with a gleeful gleam in his eyes, waiting for Mizaistom to say whatever had been so important that he’d completely dropped his guard the moment Netero had accused him of being capable of choosing victory over justice, winning over what was right. Mizaistom remained speechless. He lay on the floor where Netero had put him, wincing and staring at the ceiling, having lost the thread of the entire conversation that had lead him to this point. _

_ “The impulse to defend yourself, to set the record straight and put yourself squarely in the right, will be your undoing at the worst possible instant,” said Netero, generously skipping straight to the moral of the story instead of taking a more Socratic approach and forcing Mizaistom to guess. “In the meantime, while you’re busy formulating your best defense, I’ve already knocked you to the ground.” _

_ Mizaistom grunted at the pain in his back and rose uncomfortably to his feet. Instead of reaching out a hand to help him up, Netero returned to his previous starting stance, inviting Mizaistom into the next round. This time, Mizaistom didn’t let the old man distract him with banter, and the ensuing fight follow a more predictable script where Mizaistom struck and blocked and held his own for several long seconds before Netero worked out another clever way to knock him down and defeat him once again. _

_ “You're doing a lot of thinking, but unfortunately not on your feet,” said Netero, looking down at Mizaistom with moderate interest and zero concern. Mizaistom squinted back up through the light on the ceiling, unamused. “Where does your mind keep running off to?” _

_ Mizaistom sighed and sat up. His back ached from its second hard impact with the floor in under three short minutes, but he stood on his own again and took some time to brush off his clothes with sharp sweeps of his hand while Netero waited. Mizaistom didn’t want to say he was thinking of Pariston, or of the missing Hunters no-one in the Hunter Association had been able to account for. Mizaistom knew how that discussion would play out, since they’d had it more than once already. Netero would never address the matter on his own, but instead would listen to Mizaistom with his typical, cool manner of serene impartiality, like a schoolteacher calmly interceding in a dispute between classmates while feeling no personal investment in the eventual outcome. This irritated Mizaistom to no end, since Mizaistom wanted results and answers, not patient silence and a few placating nods before Netero moved the topic on to something inane and totally unrelated. _

_ Mizaistom kept his worries to himself as the sparring session continued. As a result, he lost every round. When he was on his back, Netero would look down at him with the same curious expression, challenging Mizaistom to come out with what he was thinking, though it was likely Netero could already guess. Each exchange became a battle within a battle, the physical competition and the test of Miziastom’s resolve to stubbornly keep his tried and tired complaints to himself. After a full hour, the sparring session ended with Mizaistom panting for breath and struggling to stand as he all but crawled to a seat on a bench against the wall. Meanwhile, Netero sitting beside him had hardly broken a sweat. _

_ “Keep an eye on Pariston. He’s tricky, and he’s very powerful,” said Netero, as though it were a continuation of a conversation they’d been having through every round. Mizaistom, wiping his face with a towel and grimacing at the pain in his shoulders, didn't look over or pause. _

_ “You gave him his power,” he grunted through the towel. Netero laughed. _

_ “No-one else wanted it as much as he did. Or well, no-one else worth it.” _

_ Mizaistom leaned forward and back, feeling out the damage he'd sustained and estimating how many days it was going to take for him to recover. He'd started taking a deep breath to fuel a sigh in response to Netero’s comment, but he cut himself off with a hiss of pain as his ribs protested expanding beyond only a fraction of his lungs’ capacity. _

_ “Someone loyal to you could’ve been vice president,” insisted Mizaistom. “There are plenty of people loyal to you within the Zodiacs. You could’ve chosen anyone.” _

_ “Maybe someone like you, then?” asked Netero. Mizaistom grimaced once more, but not from the pain. “Ah, but you don’t want power, Mizai, so, it never could’ve been you. You only want what’s right in the world, and that’s a desire woefully incompatible with governance, especially for someone so inflexible and stubborn.” _

_ “If you’d asked, I would’ve accepted. If I’d known it was going to be Pariston, I would’ve taken the job instead.” _

_ Netero smiled. He pulled at his beard thoughtfully, savoring some private thought Mizaistom suspected might have absolutely nothing to do with the conversation at hand. Mizaistom ran the towel though his hair and scrubbed his head and the back of his neck dry. He left the towel looped around his neck and inched forward in preparation to stand, hoping his sore legs would allow him at least some grace. _

_ “You’ve always been a dedicated follower of mine, Mizai.” _

_ Mizaistom glanced towards Netero and grunted, because it was too painful to shrug. “Of course,” he said. His voice was firm, expressing no regret, despite how hard it often was for him to put up with Netero when the old man hesitated to right so many grievous wrongs within the very organization he led. _

_ “Pariston challenges not only me, but also all of my most dedicated followers,” explained Netero with infinitely greater enthusiasm than Mizaistom liked. “You all, of course, say I picked Pariston because I can’t stand him. Truly, though, I was hoping none of you could stand him.” _

_ Mizaistom stared. “…You…succeeded,” he said. _

_ Netero let out a hearty laugh and slapped Mizaistom on the back. Mizaistom nearly tumbled off the bench and onto the floor at the overwhelming pain that shot through him. _

_ “Ah, now, I’m feeling sentimental,” said Netero. He looked wistfully into the distance, across the padded sparring room floor and towards the facing wall. “Old men get very sentimental for nothing all of the sudden. Now, I’d like to tell you something about myself that not many people may know, if you'd care to listen.” _

_ Mizaistom nodded uncertainly. _

_ “Spicy food gives me hiccups. Now that I’m so old, it’s more often than it used to be. Even a little Calabri red chili tapenade on noodles—I don’t think it’s a lot, but, there I go. It’s pretty much every time now.” _

_ Mizaistom shrugged off the wrinkled hand on his shoulder and stood up, done trying and ready to hit the shower. Behind him, Netero continued to chuckle softly to himself as he stroked his beard, mulling over endlessly entertaining thoughts that seemed to concern himself far more than justice and fairness and everything Mizaistom valued more than enough for both of them. _

  
  


* * *

  
  


Beans arrived to Mizaistom’s office an hour after Zepile had called with his update. In his hands was a disc in a thin plastic case sealed with a strip of tape augmented with Nen. He placed it on the corner of the desk for Mizaistom while Mizaistom finished logging out of the Hunter network.

“This is the information you asked for that came up in the Kakin Royal Household’s background checks. Botobai released it just now to be sent directly over. No-one else in the security department has seen it who knows of its connection to the Fourth Prince.”

“Good. Is the initial recording of the collection on here as well?” asked Mizaistom. He pushed his swivel chair back and picked up the disc case. “The one from the site on the Dark Net?”

“Yes. It’s everything,” said Beans. He let a beat pass for Mizaistom to get a good look at the unbroken seal on the case before adding, “Botobai was curious why you needed this information released as a physical copy. He trusts you, but he also said that if you have a use for it he isn’t aware of, he’d like to be included in that as much as you can allow.”

“I’m conducting an investigation that involves the black market, specifically the trading of collectable human body parts,” said Mizaistom. He set the case back down without opening it and folded his hands together over the desk. “I wanted confirmation on where some of the more illicit merchandise ends up, what sort of clients are interested in those things.”

“That’s all?” asked Beans.

“That’ll be enough for Botobai. He knows how investigations are run. He won’t need more than that.”

Beans nodded, said this was all he'd needed, and then politely excused himself to get some other work done. Mizaistom didn’t try to keep him. In all the years Mizaistom had been in the Hunter Association, he’d never known Beans to have a slow day. He wondered, as he usually did once Beans had gone, how much everyone relied on Beans’ work to keep the entire organization up and running without even questioning how crucial his presence was. How much more did Beans know than anyone else about the inner workings of the Hunter Association? Of course Mizaistom had interviewed Beans after every disappearance of a Hunter over the three years since Pariston had become the Vice President, but Beans, miraculously, hadn’t known a thing. Beyond the endless administrative matters he dealt with every day, Beans hardly registered anything else that took place within the organization under his watch.

Mizaistom’s already bad mood intensified at the reoccurring thought of Pariston and the conspiracy connected to him. The unbroken seal of the case caught his eye at the same time, pulling him into more bitter thoughts about human flesh collectors and their sinister world of death and the macabre trophies it left behind. There were rumors of worse consequences than the simple desecration of graves and a lack of respect for the deceased. A few years before, there’d been a trend of collecting the bones of the Buho people in Yorbian continent. The religious leaders of the tribe had unwittingly used Nen in rituals to enchant the remains of long dead elder chiefs so that, following the proper commands, the bones would rise up and dance like marionettes during a biennial feast honoring the tribe’s ancestors. By the end of the collectors’ craze for these magical bones, the Buho tribe itself had ceased to exist. The hunt for their famous dancing skeletons had lead to increasingly violent attacks against the tribe until the members remaining had dispersed and assimilated into other groups, bringing an end, in only a few short years, to a complex, Nen-adept culture that had persisted within its geographical region undisturbed for over two hundred years.

Though their story was tragic, the Buho had been lucky to escape with a handful of survivors. At the end of the day, it hadn’t been the living Buho the skeleton hunters had been after. Meanwhile, the Kurta Clan of Lukson Province, who’d been functionally eradicated minus a single child, were a far more typical case of what one could expect to happen to any group of people the flesh collecting market set its sights on. The supply and demand that ran the underground market for human remains was fed on a steady stream of suffering and death, making it exactly the sort of institution Mizaistom wanted more than anything to eradicate completely. He hadn’t merely been trying to scare Zepile into behaving when he’d threatened him over even the suggestion that Zepile might participate in such a trade. Mizaistom had meant every word.

Mizaistom saw Zepile in his mind's eye as he’d appeared when they’d parted ways in Baleno City. Zepile had been smiling then, outgoing, reciting all the proper platitudes about how they’d find Kurapika in no time and how he couldn’t wait to get started on their mission to draw him out. Frowning, Mizaistom tried to recall where else he’d seen a smile so empty and false before. In answer, the image of Zepile was replaced with the exaggeratedly apologetic smile and shrug of Pariston avoiding Mizaistom’s continued questions about missing Hunters. Mizaistom gritted his teeth. It was the same, wasn’t it? It was the same conman grin, the same inclination for cheating and lying and pretending to be so easygoing and oblivious while never ceasing to search for an opportunity that would benefit oneself above all others. 

Mizaistom grumbled and turned the computer back on to check the bank account he’d provided Zepile with in order to keep track of what his money was being used for. So far, there was only the one deposit Zepile had made after his first sale. Mizaistom recorded the number, and wrote a note to himself to remember to check the account every day now, just in case Zepile was tempted. Just in case he slipped up, gave into his proven nature, and fell back on criminality and easy money.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Zepile lifted the tooth-covered mass of wire vaguely reminiscent of a rat out of its box and held it up to the light. The dealer took a long look at it and said, sounding bored, “Ten thousand.”

“C’mon. This is high quality,” argued Zepile, continuing to hold out the rat out to the dealer, so she could get a good look. “Only pearly whites, rich teeth from rich patients. Nearly all wisdom teeth in the body with gold and platinum alloy caps for eyes and detail work. Also, not a common feature, but you’ll see that rather than filed or broken teeth, there’s full-sized baby teeth cunningly fitted in for the fine details. See it? Along the tail is especially notable, right towards the end where it comes to the point. A real artist with a generous source of raw materials made this. Plus, no damage, not a single tooth knocked loose. Considering the whole package, twelve thousand five hundred’s fairer than ten thousand flat.”

“Ten thousand five hundred.”

“Mhm. Meet me at eleven thousand five hundred?”

“Fine. Sure.”

Zepile set the rat down on the counter and reached across to the dealer, who accepted his hand to shake. With a winning smile, Zepile placed the rat back into its box and waited as the dealer stepped away to gather the cash from a safe in the back of the shop.

“I also have some—how would you say?— _wetter_ items to offload for my client, as well,” said Zepile a little while later after he’d finished counting up the bills the dealer had brought up and pocketed them. “Do you know anyone who might be interested in liquid preserved items? Stuff in jars? They can be bulky, so, I haven’t been bringing them around everywhere I go. I understand when things get fresher—so to say—the market for them narrows considerably. So, I’d appreciate any leads. My client’s getting married in a month and half and doesn’t want any of this stuff around, so, I’m working fast and won’t shy from giving out a few bargains.”

“What sort of stuff are we talking about?” asked the dealer, not especially curious, or at least not showing it. “The legality of those items narrows, too, not just the market. The law takes a stand more quickly against stuff that still looks human, or at least close to the aspect of the individual when they were alive.”

“That’s not a problem. What I’ve got is mostly medical supplies and samples that are too dated to be of interest to any professionals or institutions, but also aren’t really old enough to have any historical value.”

The dealer raised a brow, allowing Zepile to know she was mildly intrigued. “Do you have a lot of medical items you’re selling?”

“A bit. My client’s got an amateur interested in the field.”

“Any vintage histology slides, perhaps? I have someone looking for that kind of thing right now, and I’m having trouble sourcing a whole set that’s human.”

“As a matter of fact, I do have that. Even comes with the original box.” 

“How’s the condition?”

“There’s some scratches and scuffs on the wood, but the slides inside are all intact. Some aging, as expected, all the paper’s yellowed and that kind of thing, but you can still read what’s on the slides perfectly fine. It’s all verified human, as well.”

“What price are you looking for?”

“One hundred sixty thousand.”

The dealer nearly laughed in Zepile’s face. Across the counter, Zepile’s good-natured smile didn’t waver for an instant.

“Seriously?” asked the dealer, shaking her head. “That’s a bit much. Histology slides aren’t all that rare. Something like that goes for fifty thousand, max, unless it was personally owned by the Queen’s Surgeon or something, and in that case you should try donating it to a museum, because no-one in this economy’s going to be able to afford it.”

“I already said the slides aren’t that historically significant. But, this set’s all human. I’m not exaggerating.”

“No, it can’t be,” said the dealer. She didn’t stop looking at Zepile like he was an idiot as she explained. “Even if it’s an older set, there’s bound to be a couple dogs and cats and rabbits thrown in there. They might not be labeled as such, but that’s what’s standard. I can probably offer you thirty-thousand to get it off your hands, and that’s being generous, but it sounds to me like the set’s been mislabeled, so, it’s not going to interest my buyer.”

“You should take a look at it first,” said Zepile. “It’s too valuable to carry around with me. I’ll have to retrieve it. I can bring it around tomorrow.”

“I’ll be out for a couple weeks starting tomorrow. You’ll have to bring it tonight if you want to make a sale.”

Zepile accepted the condition without protest. “Well, then, you better count all the cash you have on hand and maybe hit up an ATM while I’m gone,” he said, “because it’s going to be worth one hundred and sixty thousand jenny, and not a cent less.”

“You’re going to feel pretty foolish saying that when you get back here, and it turns out it’s not even worth thirty.”

“And you’re going to feel foolish if I get back here and you haven’t got the money.”

The dealer’s sneer collapsed into a frown. She looked Zepile over with a critical eye before scoffing at him. “Ch’. You should feel lucky I’m even remotely interested in something so worthless,” she said. She wasn't just talking about the histology slides.

“You should feel lucky I’m such a patient and understanding guy,” countered Zepile. The dealer tightened her jaw in disgust at his nerve. “Okay, okay. I'm sorry for that,” said Zepile, just apologetic and understanding enough to get the dealer to relax a little. “I understand why you’re acting like the item isn't worth as much as I say,” he explained, “but I know my wares. I’ll still bring it around if you’re interested. Even tonight, if it has to be tonight. I don’t really mind. What time works for you?”

“Half past ten. I’ll still be here at the shop.”

“Okay. I’ll see you at half past ten, then,” said Zepile. The dealer frowned at him in confusion when he didn’t move to leave right away. Taking a deep breath, Zepile leaned in closer, motioning for the dealer to come in as well. Reluctantly, she did so.

“As a courtesy,” he said softly, “let me warn you that the legality of the item might come under fire depending on your buyer’s specific location. See, there’s a question of consent associated with the piece. In Hesas, where the set’s from, you’re supposed to include credit to the donors of the cell and tissue samples, since body snatching ran a bit rampant there at the time when the set was created. In addition, the country was literally a serfdom, so if there’s no credit given, the general assumption is that, well…you know. It’s not illegal to sell in this country, but the highest demand for these items is in Hesas itself funnily enough, so, I’m telling you now that I’m not going to give you a discount on the price just because you’ll have to smuggle it across borders. That’s at your expense, not mine. You and your buyer can work it out. For me, I’m firm on the one hundred sixty thousand, and I won’t take a cent less.”

The dealer, eyes notably widened, looked at Zepile as if he’d magically appeared before her that instant, and she had no idea who he was.

“Well, shit,” she said. “It’s really from Hesas, then?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure it’s exactly what you’re looking for, too. That’s where most of the historical all-human sets the collectors want these days are from, and that’s where they demand the highest price. No-one else is so insistent on the slides being entirely human.”

“…You’re right. I’m sorry. I just…. You said your specialty was antiques and that you took this job for a friend of yours who’s getting married, so, I just assumed….”

“You could rip me off. Yeah. I’ve realized. I might be pressed for time, and I might not know this market as well as I know antiques, but I never said I was going around just giving this stuff away.”

“Sorry. Again. I’ll have the money on hand when you get back. If the set’s what you say it is, one hundred sixty thousand's more than a fair price. I’ll still make a profit off of that.”

“You’ll make a damn profit off of that. I haven’t got the connects to pull it off myself, or else I’d be out there shipping the set off to Hesas myself," said Zepile wistfully. The dealer had relaxed enough to chuckle at Zepile’s comment. "Must be great to have some real buyers, international buyers. I’m stuck peddling my wares around town for Baleno City retail price, which is peanuts compared to what you can get overseas.”

“If you stick around, it's not that hard to get into the global trade,” said the dealer. “It’s sort of part of the system around here. With the mafia…ah, well, but of course you probably already know." She looked away, and Zepile didn't push for more. Relieved, the dealer changed the subject. "Look, though, if you’ve got some other stuff, we can talk about that, too. You said you have fresh stuff, right? You’ve got some items preserved in solution? I don’t sell a lot of that, but obviously I know people. I can facilitate that for you.”

“Alas, you’re going out of town for a few weeks starting tomorrow.”

“Ah!" said the dealer, wincing. "Yes, well…about that….”

“I figured that was a lie, don’t worry. I’ll bring the set by tomorrow, when the shop’s open, and there’s people around.”

The dealer scoffed and held up a hand as though to wave Zepile’s unnecessarily high level of caution away. “I’m not going to steal from you,” she said. “I don’t operate like that. I try to keep my acquisitions clean. No-one sells to you if they think you’re going to rob them by force if they bring you something good. I’m running a business here.”

“I’m busy,” said Zepile, insisting, “so, I’m still going to bring it by in the afternoon.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll be waiting. Shop opens at nine.”

Zepile left the shop a short while later with the payment for the rat in his pocket and the promise of a bigger payoff the next afternoon. Before even thinking of doing anything else, he went to a cash machine to deposit the money. When he was done, he stopped under a streetlamp and texted Mizaistom a photo of the receipt the dealer had written out, knowing he’d be bothered for it later if he didn’t beat Mizaistom to the punch.

“Don’t you worry, nice and legal, buddy,” he murmured into his phone as he typed and sent the amount after the photo to confirm it in case Mizaistom had trouble reading the script. “So, don’t sue me, you asshole.”

Zepile slipped the phone into his pocket and continued on to the nearest bus stop to catch the next one back to plaza near the hotel where he was staying. A soft, solitary ding rang out from his pocket a few seconds later, and he glanced down at Mizaistom’s reply.

“Ok,” it said. That was all.


	9. Perspective

Though his job was done, Leorio continued to study the photographs Mizaistom had spread out on the table in front of him. His gaze fell back to the nearest one, lingering too long before he caught himself staring and moved on.

“I wonder what he’s got himself into,” he said quietly under his breath.

Mizaistom knew there was no use in answering. The photographs on the table were of prominent mafia leaders entering what was assumed to be an illegal auction, though the local police hadn’t been able to gather definitive proof that anything more than a routine, regional meeting had taken place. Representatives from the Nostrade family were frequently seen at such events where they sought out new treasures for their insistent master’s macabre trove. Among them, as confirmed by Leorio, had been Kurapika, though his appearances had tapered off over the past few months. Kurapika was now giving the orders from the top rather than carrying them out, and the grunt work of attending auctions in person and scouring underground human body parts markets for items was supposedly no longer his concern.

“There’s one more photo here,” said Mizaistom, pulling it from a folder as he spoke. “It was taken at a charity event where Kurapika was working security for one of the attendees. It’s a pity I didn’t know about it sooner. Some of my own men were working the same event. Can you confirm it’s him in the photo?”

Mizaistom held up the photograph, and Leorio leaned forward to get a better look. “Yep,” he said. “That’s him. He looks the same as he always did. I’m not sure why you needed me to confirm it for you.”

“I’ve never met him,” said Mizaistom with as he slipped the photograph back into its file. “Not many people have, or at least not those who I can easily contact. There’s the Hunter Association staff who assessed his performance in the exam, but I don’t want to pull any more people into this investigation than I already have. Also, you’ve seen Kurapika more recently than any of them.”

“I saw him eight months ago on a video call the day after my birthday, and it lasted three whole minutes.”

“And our most recent photo is from four months ago, so, we’re only marginally better off,” said Mizaistom. He gestured to the photographs on the table, where each one Leorio had identified as being Kurapika sat spread out on top of the others. “More importantly, does Kurapika look the same as he did when Zepile would’ve known him?”

“Pretty much. He wears a suit now, but that’s not exactly a transformation.”

“Good. I’ll relay that to Zepile when he checks with me tomorrow.”

Leorio reached down and picked up the most recent photograph of Kurapika in the bunch, the same one that had been attracting his gaze over and over since he’d selected it from a tall stack of photographs of mafia henchmen. It was the most complete of all the photographs of Kurapika, capturing an entire half of his solemn face as he observed the area around him, his guard set high. If he looked close, Leorio could make out the lines on Kurapika’s thinly striped shirt poking out from beneath the collar of his suit jacket as he turned, just milliseconds away from looking directly into the camera lens aimed at him from his six o’clock.

“How’s Zepile doing?” asked Leorio tearing his eyes away. “How’s it all going on his side? Any luck so far?”

“Zepile’s doing what he has to,” said Mizaistom without enthusiasm. “It’s taking some time, though.”

Leorio grinned and set the photograph down. “Don’t worry, seriously,” he said after catching sight of Mizaistom’s face. “He’ll get the job done. I told you he’s a dependable guy. If Zepile promises to do something, he doesn’t care what risks he has to take, he’ll keep his word.”

“I wished he’d work a bit harder.”

“Harder? I’m sure he’s giving it everything he’s got.”

Mizaistom opened the legal case on the dining chair beside him and slipped the file back inside. On cue, Leorio began to collect the photographs from the table and place them into another empty folder beside him. Mizaistom asked him to keep the photographs of Kurapika together at the top of the stack.

“About Zepile,” said Mizaistom while Leorio sorted photographs. “I’m not sure the incentive you and Senritsu have offered him is enough, since I doubt he wants to truly retake the exam. He seems content to have washed out early the first time. He’s realized the danger involved, and if you ask me, I don’t believe he’ll ever take the Hunter Exam again, even if he does train for it.” 

Leorio’s grin returned. “No, maybe not,” he said. “But, it’s not just about the incentive with Zepile. You don’t have the whole story.”

“What’s the whole story?” asked Mizaistom, not appreciating having to learn about the man he was currently working with by increments whenever Leorio felt like sharing.

“Well, for one, Zepile is sort of funny. He doesn’t like to tell you how much work he’s doing behind the scenes. He tries to make it all look easy. He told me it’s part of building people’s confidence in him. If he’s not worried, and he tells everyone that everything’s okay, then his clients trust him more, and his job is easier.”

“As a former counterfeiter, I’m not surprised he knows how to build up people’s trust. In his days as a criminal, he would’ve built it up and then exploited it.”

“He’s still a good guy, though,” argued Leorio. It disappointed him, Mizaistom’s continued distrust of Zepile. He’d thought after a few days together, Zepile would’ve won Mizaistom over as easily and quickly he did everyone else, but apparently the bullheaded Mizaistom was proving something of a challenge. “When we met him in York Shin, he promised Gon he’d earn him back twenty million jenny in the auctions, and he kept his word to the day. He was even bragging about what a great trader he was as he handed over the cash. But...” Leorio paused for effect. “He told me later that he had to take out a huge loan to pay Gon back, because he couldn’t cash the check he got from the auctions by the exact day he’d promised. So, to keep his word, he gave Gon every penny he had and spent the rest of the day so broke he couldn’t even pay for the bus back to his hotel.”

“That was foolish of him,” said Mizaistom coldly. “I prefer those who are honest and direct over those who smile and tell you everything’s fine when there’s a problem. People like Zepile create bigger problems by keeping everything to themselves.”

“Good luck, then,” said Leorio. He laughed, but Mizaistom’s severe expression remained unaltered. “Zepile’s pretty dedicated to keeping things easy between him and everyone, even when he’s the guy who’s in trouble because of it. So, be careful with him. Watch out for him.”

“I’ll certainly be on my guard,” promised Mizaistom. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t jeopardize our mission for his pride.”

“No, I mean be careful with him as in look out for him,” said Leorio more firmly. “As in, you have to protect him, not harangue him when you think he’s lying. That’s your job here for me, because I won’t know what’s happening. I know for a fact he’ll sugarcoat everything with me if I ask him what’s up, because he took this job for me, as his friend who believes in him, and he works the hardest for people who believe in him.”

“He took the job to get a Hunter’s license as well, if you recall,” said Mizaistom. He crossed his arms and looked down on Leorio. “That’s what you offered him.”

“That’s the part he wants you to see,” said Leorio. “But, as you yourself just said, he doesn’t really want the license. It’s true. He took the job for me, and he just says he wants to be a Hunter and then puts up with you, because he promised me he’d help you find Kurapika. _Me_ , I must emphasize again here, not you. He would never have taken this job otherwise, and that makes me feel responsible for him.”

Though his opinion hadn’t changed, Mizaistom was forced to relax his stance and uncross his arms to accept the stack of photos Leorio handed him. The difficulty of computing why someone, a former criminal, would take such a dangerous and difficult job merely because his friend had requested it was too great for Mizaistom to puzzle out right there on the spot. He eyed Leorio warily, trying to discern some trick. Leorio yawned wide and stood up scratching his chin, unaware he was being scrutinized. Nothing about him stood out as suspicious. Either he was a shockingly good liar, or Zepile was just that good of conman, having read both Leorio and Mizaistom perfectly and spun the hazy explanations for his motivations to match both men’s expectations of him. But…to what end? Why?

Mizaistom’s mind, struggling for answers where there were none, once again brought him back to the face of the same beaming blond with the perfect, non-implicating response to any and all accusations Mizaistom flung at him. This was the last straw, Mizaistom decided. His own personal frustrations with Pariston had no place in the case at hand. Looking at Leorio, the man who’d won over nearly the entire Hunter Association from nothing but a punch and a plea to save his friend was putting Miziastom’s thoughts a bit more in perspective. Comparing Zepile to someone like Pariston was clouding his judgement, making him too quick to accuse and condemn instead of maintaining a more professional impartiality. Of course, he had no proof Zepile was the dependable person Leorio insisted he was, but if he were honest with himself and looked past his prejudices, he had to admit that he also lacked proof to the contrary.

“I’ll keep in mind what you said,” said Mizaistom a few minutes later after all the photographs had been collected and he was making his way to the door to leave. “I’ll try to keep Zepile out of trouble.”

“Can I suggest something?” asked Leorio. It was hard to tell what he was thinking now that he’d slipped on a pair of reading glasses to begin his daily studying routine. He looked much more serious and dependable than before.

“Certainly,” said Mizaistom with a nod.

“Maybe work with him more, not over him. It’ll be harder for him to keep to himself that way. Right?”

“I can’t be in Baleno City all the time. I have other responsibilities.”

“Yeah. True. I guess it would be difficult to keep such a close eye on him if you’re not there.”

The glasses not only made made Leorio look more serious; his disappointment was also more acute. Mizaistom felt for him and his deep concern for the well-being of his friend. Mizaistom wondered if this was the real charismatic power of Leorio Paladiknight unleashed on a small scale against one person rather than the entire Hunter Association at once. Trying to be reassuring, Mizaistom cleared his throat and said, “Look. I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can assign someone to check in on him, or accompany him when he’s bound to be somewhere dangerous. I’m not sure. I’ll try to work something out.”

“Please, do. He’s a normal guy, and he’s getting into a dangerous business for my sake. It makes me kinda nervous.”

“You’re right. I understand your concern.”

Mizaistom left later feeling more troubled than when he’d arrived. In the car on the way to his hotel, he checked through his calendar to see when he was scheduled to visit Baleno City next. He checked where else he might be able to squeeze in more visits in the future and began to formulate a few plausible reasons for why he’d potentially make them. 

Leorio had severely underestimated how weak Mizaistom was to requests to look after people and keep them safe. As someone who believed in preventing as well as punishing wrongs, he had a fundamental need to protect people who were the most susceptible to harm or criminal influences. If Leorio was correct, and indeed Leorio’s word was more valuable than Mizaistom’s own personal impressions formed from zero experience, then Zepile’s nature might put him in more danger than Mizaistom had anticipated. Zepile might easily take the risks that someone working alone for their own selfish gain would eschew in order to play it safe. That was a major problem, because people working selflessly for those they cared about rather than for a tangible reward were much more capable of needless sacrific, and in the criminal underworld, on the fringes of the black market in collectable human body parts, Zepile could get into a lot of trouble very quickly, perhaps more than he possibly knew.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It’d taken Zepile over a minute to come to the phone once it’d begun to ring. He proceeded to nearly drop it twice after answering and carrying it someplace where he didn’t have to hold it up the entire time to conduct a video call. With a surprising surplus of patience not usually reserved for Zepile when he called to check up on him, Mizaistom waited in total, unnerving silence for him to stand the phone up in place on top of a short shelf for organizing papers at the corner of his hotel room desk.

“Did something come up?” asked Zepile a second time since he’d answered. The first time he’d interrupted himself by nearly dropping the phone to the floor. “I was conducting some research into my next sale. You remember the bone chess set? I think I’ve got someone for that, but I just wanted to check some of the inscriptions on the bottom of the board. There’s a maker that’s especially desirable, and if it’s the mark I’m thinking it is on the bottom, I can really dig my heels in when negotiating the price.”

“There are enough people making human bone chess sets that they have maker’s marks on them to distinguish them all from each other?” asked Mizaistom, both astonished and disturbed, and for a moment completely forgetting what he’d been calling to say.

“Um, yeah. You gave me this stuff, Mizaistom,” said Zepile, looking into the camera incredulously. “Do you even know anything about the items I’m selling?”

“Not much. I’m not supposed to be the expert. That’s why I hired you.”

“Seriously? How did you even find all this stuff if you’re so clueless about it?”

“If it was legal, good quality, and made of human remains, I bought it,” said Mizaistom. He tried not to let the small twinge of embarrassment he suddenly felt invade his tone or manner. “If you want to know, I picked up most of the items in police auctions. I figured you could work out the details to resell them on your own, as a professional. That sort of stuff isn’t really my job.”

“Okay. I get it,” said Zepile. He yawned and stretched his arms out in front of him, pulling hard. Something in his shoulder popped so loud Mizaistom could hear it through the phone. “Anyway,” continued Zepile, “where’s the fire? Why are you calling me now? I was going to contact you tomorrow, like we planned, so I’m guessing something happened? Weren’t you supposed to visit Leorio at some point this week?”

“I saw him today. He confirmed that Kurapika hasn’t changed his appearance and isn’t using a disguise. You should be able to recognize him if you run into him.”

“Ah, good to know,” said Zepile. At some point he’d taken up a ballpoint pen to toy with, and Mizaistom was just now noticing the annoying click in the background as Zepile lowered and retracted the tip over and over. “I don’t think it’ll be any time soon that I’ll run into him, though. I’m still getting word out about the eyes. I think he might send someone to check if it’s a false alarm before I ever get to see him myself. He’s cautious. Maybe false alarms are common in the black market? I don’t know. But, thanks for telling me what to look for if he does show up.”

“I figured it might be useful to know sooner rather than later.”

“Yeah, sure. You never know.”

Silence lapsed between them, minus the impatiently clicking pen, as Zepile waited for Mizaistom to either say something more, or else hang up. The sudden call was unusual and seemingly rather unnecessary if it was only intended to update Zepile on Kurapika’s unchanged appearance. Mizaistom could’ve texted that. If there wasn’t an emergency going on or any bigger news to share, then Zepile wanted to get back to work. At this point, he was enduring Mizaistom to be polite, because he’d agreed to do so for Leorio’s sake.

“Anyway, since I have you now, how’s everything there?” asked Mizaistom with awkward suddenness.

“I already told you,” said Zepile. He dared to sound annoyed with the question. “The chess set. I might have a buyer.”

“Ah yes,” said Mizaistom. “And have you sold anything else? There was a rat with teeth or something?”

“That was a little while ago. I already texted you.”

“You did. I remember.”

Zepile looked at the camera as though asking Mizaistom in frustration 'well then why did you even ask?' 

“I remember there was a pretty large deposit recently,” said Mizaistom, struggling not to sound like he was accusing Zepile of anything, “so, I thought maybe you’d sold a few other things, too. You only mentioned the histology slides.”

“It really was just the slides,” said Zepile. Something like a smile, but more like a sneer, played at the corner of his mouth. “I sold the histology set for one hundred and sixty thousand jenny.”

“That was all one sale?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you check your account? I texted you that, too.”

“I only glanced at all of that while traveling. I thought you simply hadn’t got around to listing everything yet.”

Zepile’s hint of a smile was gone in a flash. He wouldn’t have left out so much crucial information, no matter how much of a hurry he’d been in.

“But really, that much?” asked Mizaistom. “I don’t think I even paid that much for it. I think I spent around fifty thousand.”

“Well then, Mizaistom, I regret to inform you that you need to turn yourself in to the police and confess, because you fucking stole it at that price.”

Mizaistom didn’t realize it was a joke until he heard Zepile start laughing at him.

“Should I actually report it to someone?” asked Mizaistom with genuine concern once Zepile’s laughter had died down. “Some institution for better business practices? It doesn’t seem fair.”

“No, no, of course not. Jeez. You bought it in an auction, right? You were just lucky,” said Zepile with a dismissive wave. He leaned back and began flipping the pen over his thumb, which Mizaistom preferred over the agitated clicking. “Sometimes it’s just luck. The crowd didn’t know what they were bidding on. Fifty thousand is like the retail value of a standard set of slides with cats and animals thrown in. So, that means you probably won it at fifty thousand because no-one else realized how much it was worth. That’s not a crime. The people auctioning it should’ve done more research before they put it up for sale.”

“I was worried, because I knew it was from Hesas,” admitted Mizaistom. “I know about the laws there, so I recognized it. But, technically it’s not illegal outside that country. After some deliberation, I went ahead and bought it.”

“You knew where it was from, what it was, but you never checked how much it was actually worth?”

“I told you I’m not trying to make a profit. I just thought it had a good chance of being all human, since it emanated a faint amount of residual aura.”

Zepile had to sit back deeper in his chair as he began to shake, amazed. “Damn,” he said. “Are all Hunter’s this bad at auctioning and trading? For real? You’re really no better than Gon and Killua running around and cheating with aura.”

“I’m not an expert,” Mizaistom reminded him. “I have to rely on alternative means to assess value.”

“It’s not value, really, it’s craftsmanship and care, though, right? Effort and willpower? Nen?”

“Yes. That’s right. Even something worthless, if created with great care and skill, can carry traces of the creator’s aura.”

Zepile looked away from the phone to the end of the desk. Mizaistom already knew from having visited the room once that the counterfeit sculpture Zepile had kept close since the trip to Swaldani City was there, serving as an oversized paperweight for a small pile of documents.

“You know, you’re oddly chatty today,” said Zepile after a moment. “You must be a fan of Leorio’s country. Seems to have put you in a better mood than the Hunter Association headquarters.”

“I’m trying to keep things relaxed,” said Mizaistom. “I want to apologize for how I was the last time I called.”

“Ah yes,” said Zepile with feigned thoughtfulness, though it was obvious he wouldn’t have forgot. “You mean when you threatened to have me convicted of a felony or something if I stuck even a toe out of line?”

“Yes,” said Mizaistom. “It was…inappropriate. You were merely trying to keep my expectations realistic, and I refused to accept your professional opinion on the matter. I made a fool of myself, and I’m sorry.”

Zepile shrugged. “Leorio got to you, didn’t he? He talked sense into you or something.”

“He told me to work closely with you and to trust you more.”

“That’s a start.”

“I want to be clear it’s not simply a change of heart,” said Mizaistom. “This mission might be dangerous for you, especially if it takes as long as you’ve projected. There’s a Hunter involved for certain, and we Nen-users attract each other, for better or worse. There’s a good chance you might run into trouble you can’t handle by yourself.”

“I really hope you aren’t going to make this another excuse to treat me like I can’t take care of myself, Mizaistom.”

“If Nen’s involved, you really can’t,” said Mizaistom firmly. He interrupted Zepile as he was beginning to argue. “It’s not a personal judgment, it’s a fact. You literally cannot handle an attack with Nen. You should be more concerned about that and, if you want to survive, try to be less stubborn. When it comes to Nen, it’s not just my opinion that you can’t handle it. That’s the reality.”

Zepile stared sullenly down at the surface of the desk. The pen in his hand stopped spinning. It was clicked one final time before he placed on the table. 

“Well, I…” began Zepile, but stopped when his eyes fell on the clock on the bedside table. He hurriedly confirmed the time with his watch, and then sat up. He stepped out of view of the camera, muttering to himself about running late.

“I have to go,” said Zepile, his torso appearing once more on screen as he leaned over to pick up the phone. “I lost track of time. I need to look over a few notes and then catch the bus to the university district. I’ve got a meeting out there with a buyer, and it’s not close by. I’m going to have to hang up now.”

“Good luck with the sale,” said Mizaistom. “I understand.”

“Great,” said Zepile as the screen became a blur of movement. Mizaistom caught sight of the side of Zepile’s forehead and the flash of an ear before the image settled on the ceiling. 

“Bye. I’ll call you…uh…later or whatever,” said Zepile, “keep you up to date and all that.”

“I’ll be waiting to hear from you,” said Mizaistom.

“Yeah,” said Zepile, and the call immediately ended. 

Though it meant nothing, Zepile had hung up before Mizaistom could even offer a profunctory goodbye. It left Mizaistom feeling annoyed and overall unsatisfied with the call. A twinge of suspicion rose up within him at the sudden rush at the end, but he told himself that it was reasonable Zepile had lost track of time. Mizaistom had called him unexpectedly and dragged out a full conversation Zepile hadn’t anticipated having. There was nothing wrong with him becoming disoriented and forced to hurry to keep his schedule. What Mizaistom needed to be most wary of instead was his eagerness to mark everything Zepile did as suspect.

Mizaistom sighed and looked over to the door of the study he was using as an office. The intense desire to avoid the complicated interpersonal situation before him could easily take him out of this room, out of the building, and far away from the city, but in the end, fleeing was cowardly, and even worse, it put Zepile at greater risk. Anyone talented and foolhardy enough take the Hunter Exam underprepared was likely a veteran of getting in over his head too quickly. Unfortunately, there wasn’t always a generous Killua Zoldyck on the other end to spare one’s life. There was only Mizaistom who didn’t trust him, and Leorio who was relying on him. It left no doubt in Mizaistom's mind that things, no matter how hard he tried to control them from afar with threats and constant reminders to stay in line, would turn out badly.


	10. The Black Market

The bundle tucked under Zepile’s arm was too square and dense to be the folding bone chess set he’d mentioned earlier on the phone with Mizaistom. While there was certainly a buyer interested in the chess set, that buyer wasn’t the person Zepile would be meeting tonight. The current buyer was interested in a new item on offer, something special Mizaistom didn’t and couldn’t possibly know about, because Zepile had sourced it from his own client network and not Mizaistom’s tamest of all flesh collector’s troves. It’s existence, as well as the whole of the transaction Zepile hoped to conduct, would be left off the books, ideally where Mizaistom would never discover it.

Zepile hadn’t run as late as he’d feared he would while rushing to end the call. He’d had to sprint to catch a specific train right as the doors were closing, but he’d made it on board and gained several extra minutes, putting him slightly ahead of schedule. It wasn’t ideal, of course, but he’d have to manage. He’d have preferred to arrive almost an hour early to the meeting in order to give himself ample time to case out the area and come up with a contingency plan if things went south. Instead, because he’d forgot the time, he’d been forced to settle with walking slow and taking in as much of the superficial aspect of the campus and the hall where the buyer's office was located as he arrived, praying as he went that the transaction would go smoothly and he wouldn’t actually need to flee.

It didn't take long for Zepile to locate the office number the shop owner had scribbled down for him, but the door was shut and the sound of voices from within told him there was a meeting underway which had gone on past its scheduled time. He took a seat on a bench in the hallway outside and waited, his leg bouncing impatiently with the passing minutes. He’d already started to regret having agreed to come alone onto the buyer's own turf. The university campus was more abandoned than he'd expected so late in the evening, making it hardly as public of a meeting place as he would've preferred. Voices still rose from offices downstairs, however, which meant this arrangement was at least somewhat safer than an anonymous alleyway in a city he barely knew. As a rule, Zepile always refused outright when making arrangements with buyers to meet anywhere desolate or dark. His main argument was that he didn’t have time to travel to and try to find abandoned places, and he didn't trust driving along with strangers to get there, either. On a more practical note, darkness and seclusion weren’t good for business anyway, because with only security lights or flashlights to see, it’d be impossible for a client to accurately judge the validity of an item as rare and valuable as, in this case, a book bound in the flesh of man who’d been flayed alive.

The jiggling of Zepile's leg nearly knocked said book from his lap, and he was forced to awkwardly catch it against his calf. He cringed as he set it back and held it in place. The cloth wrapped snugly around the book was more than just a convenient way to transport and conceal it, though such an item hardly needed concealing, since it appeared to be nothing more than a old, leather-bound book to those unaware of its macabre provenance. For Zepile personally, the heavy cloth’s most crucial function was that it prevented him from ever needing to touch the book directly. He’d only held it in his hands once since the package containing it had arrived to the shop of his new associate, the shop owner and antiques dealer with the extensive smuggling ring connections, but he’d had gloves on at the time because the natural oils on human skin could degrade the quality of leather over time. The dealer had commended Zepile’s foresight and care in handling the book, but not, it’d turned out, for reasons Zepile would’ve expected. She’d told him, frankly, as if stating some obvious fact like the sky being blue, that it was common for human artifacts gained under significant duress to be cursed. Zepile, possessing a rudimentary knowledge of the potential lingering effects of Nen thanks to Gon and Killua, hadn’t been as quick as he might’ve in the past to scoff at the idea and tell the dealer he wasn’t worried about curses. Instead, he’d nodded in cool-headed agreement, while internally, everything screamed at him to throw the book down and exit the shop, the country, and the entire mission itself before he got himself laden with an inescapable Nen curse for all his trouble.

Which would be worse, Zepile wondered as he shifted uneasily in his seat, a Nen curse or a fraud conviction with subsequent jail time and his reputation in shambles? He couldn’t really guess. The weight of the consequence he knew and the dread of the supernatural he couldn’t even imagine seemed to balance themselves out in severity. Both needed to be avoided at all costs. At the same time, if he really searched himself on the matter, he was inclined to think the curse was perhaps the most terrible, simply because the unknown was always a little more terrifying than the otherwise more traditional and comparatively mundane punishments he recognized and expected.

After several minutes that felt like a small eternity, a pair of students finally emerged from the office. Behind them, hovering in the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back to see them off, was an old man Zepile didn’t know. As the students’ thundering steps down the stairs became a faint rumble, he turned to Zepile and nodded in welcome. Zepile stood and joined him at the door.

“Dr. Teluz?” asked Zepile. He hesitated in the hall although he already presumed this man would be the buyer.

“Correct,” answered the man. Zepile, reassured, stepped past the threshold and into the office. Dr. Teluz shut the door behind them.

“This is where you work? Aren’t you worried conducting business here?” asked Zepile. He glanced around the office as he spoke. The space was small, dim, and crowded with filing cabinets of various sizes upon which more, smaller cabinets were balanced and periodicals were stacked. Despite the tightness and the clutter, the room didn’t give the impression of total disarray, but rather, of being overloaded. Zepile couldn’t figure out where the students who’d just gone could’ve been sitting, since there were only two mismatched chairs beside each other, one a swiveling desk chair that was presumably Dr. Teluz’s, and the other an uncomfortable looking wooden chair that had been taken over by a organizing rack with every slot packed full of paperwork.

“Have a seat,” said Dr. Teluz invitingly. In the dim light, it took Zepile several seconds to see the man was indicating the corner of a low, heavy wooden chest with a cushion on its far end nearest to the desk. Zepile sat on the very edge of it, and set the bundle with the book on his lap, ready to hop up and leave if anything got weird.

“I’m worried this isn’t the safest place to conduct business,” said Zepile. “Are you absolutely sure of security?”

“I am,” said Dr. Teluz. As he spoke, the looming shadows of the office seemed to draw closer until one shadow separated from the rest and stepped out into the light. For a moment, Zepile thought it might be a ghost, though he’d never believed in ghosts. As the figure from the darkness stepped out further, he saw it was solid and human-shaped. This would’ve been a relief, except that none of this person’s distinguishing features were visible, as if a bit of the shadow the person had just emerged from still clung to their face and figure. They wore gloves, which Zepile could see because the glint of the gun they held in a resting position caught his eye.

“My associates have the door, the window, and the room itself under their watch. They are very good. They can see and sense intruders you or I never could. I trust them completely.”

Zepile was staring at the stranger and only dimly indicated he’d understood what Dr. Teluz had said. The corner from which the "associate" had emerged was dark, yes, but judging by the dimensions on the room, didn’t seem large enough to have concealed someone so massive so effectively. 

Quicker than usual, Zepile’s mind gravitated towards Nen, but he didn’t dare ask for verification from Dr. Teluz. Mizaistom had warned him first and foremost, and then several times again after they’d arrived to Baleno City, to never reveal he knew of the existence of Nen to anyone. Instead, he should strive to look as bewildered and shocked as anyone else if confronted with something supernatural or strange. He should become appropriately afraid, as well, since it would convince the blatant Nen-user that they were already in control of the situation through intimidation without needing to go through the trouble of using their special ability to its full extent.

In this particular instance, Zepile was finding it phenomenally easy to play the role of someone scared out of their wits by something they couldn’t explain. Dr. Teluz needed to clear his throat twice to get Zepile’s attention, as Zepile continued to stare, enraptured and unblinking, at the corner, trying to puzzle out if the person had merely been using excellent camouflage, or if there were something far more sinister at play.

“Don’t let my associate disturb you,” said Dr. Teluz. At some point he’d pulled the empty desk chair over and taken a seat directly across from Zepile. Now, he was close enough to lay a reassuring arm on Zepile’s shoulder, which Zepile shied away from. “They are here for our protection, and they are all very discreet.”

“Of course,” said Zepile. He took a deep breath and shook his head once to clear it. His grip on the bundle in his lap tightened, and he pulled it closer to his chest, as if worried the shadows might steal it.

“Is that the item, the book I’m looking for?” asked Dr. Teluz. He dropped his unwanted hand from Zepile’s shoulder and pointed.

“Yes,” said Zepile. “I, uh, it arrived today, this morning. From York Shin.”

“May I see it?”

“Of course,” said Zepile. His hands shook, though he tried to suppress it, as he unknotted the top of the cloth bundle. He was no longer concerned about getting a good price or even making the actual sale itself. Survival was the greater priority. All he wanted was to leave. If he died or was taken away or whatever it was a sinister Nen-user might think to do to him, Mizaistom, the only person in the world who could do anything about it, wouldn’t even know until tomorrow when Zepile missed the appointed time to call and update him on his newest leads.

Zepile’s stomach twisted and he clenched his teeth. Mizaistom might not even notice as early as tomorrow that he was gone, because he’d called Zepile earlier that day. He might assume Zepile had skipped their appointment because nothing had changed since they’d last spoke. In that case, it might take days for Mizaistom to realize something had gone wrong, and that meant, effectively, that Zepile right now was alone.

“It’s a, uh, a book,” stammered Zepile. He struggled to remember his pitch, rushing through the details as they came to him in the moment rather than actually trying to sell the item. “The binding is, or well, it’s bound in leather. The leather is derived from human skin. Of Flenquinont Alverius Okerient Plabo. He was flayed alive during the Flurein witch trials. Accused of having flayed alive countless unidentified and never actually proven to have ever existed children. He supposedly used their skins to rebind religious books. So, then, the court decided he deserved a like punishment, and hence, the book here, which documents his trial and describes other supernatural crimes he was also convicted of.”

“Hm. Interesting,” said Dr. Teluz, having moved closer after being forced to lean forward when Zepile had begun to mumble somewhere in the middle. “May I have a look at it, then?”

Zepile immediately handed the book over, cloth and all. Dr. Teluz caught it and gave him a curious look before setting everything on the desk just behind him.

“Thank you,” he said. Zepile nodded and cast a quick glance at the shadowy person with the gun.

Sitting still was completely out of the question for Zepile, who fidgeted with his hands as he waited for Dr. Teluz get up and pull his swivel chair back over to the desk. Dr. Teluz removed a magnifying glass from a lower drawer, and then, with a glove covering one hand, gingerly inspected the book’s cover and first pages. As he worked, he occasionally glanced over to Zepile, admonishing him silently if he started bouncing his leg. The force and nervous energy of it seemed to shake the room itself. After a few more minutes, Dr. Teluz sighed, and without a word, the shadowy figure passed between an impossibly narrow aisle of books and cabinets to the door and let itself out of the room.

“Perhaps it was a bit too much,” murmured Dr. Teluz more to himself than to Zepile. “You must really be new to all this.”

“All of what? I’m just trying to sell a book here,” Zepile assured him with false confidence he was sure Dr. Teluz didn't believe. Though he felt a little better now that the shadowy stranger had gone, he hadn’t forgot there was supposedly one at the window and another at the door.

“Where did you find this book?” asked Dr. Teluz with great interest as he slipped the book shut and set down his magnifying glass. “It was supposed to have been destroyed during the Flurein Civil War.”

The air felt cleaner after a few minutes without the darkness holding a gun in the corner, and Zepile’s words came to him much more easily. “I have a client whose family is from Flurein,” he said. “He showed this book to me a while back. He inherited it from a great-uncle. It creeped him out, though, so he wanted to sell it, but there’s not really a market for this sort of stuff in York Shin. Or well, not a legal one. I figured I’d have better luck selling it here in Baleno City.”

“There’s no legal market for this book anywhere,” said Dr. Teluz. Of course, Zepile already knew that. Dr. Teluz could tell he knew it, too. “After Flenquinont Alverius Okerient Plabo was pardoned ten years ago, his descendants requested the book from the Royal Library, but it couldn’t be found and was assumed destroyed in the war. Technically, the family owns this book now, and it ought to be returned to them if it’s ever discovered.”

Zepile suppressed a frown. “If you don’t want to buy it…” he said doubtfully, but had no idea how he’d deliver on a threat to take the book and leave if Dr. Teluz called his shadow minion back into the room and informed him that no, he had no intention of buying it. In fact, he’d just take it, if Zepile didn’t mind. Zepile, of course, wouldn't mind—anything to ensure he'd walked away from this and didn’t die a sudden (and he presumed gruesome) Nen death.

“Have you got other clients overseas looking to sell more items similar to this?” asked Dr. Teluz.

“More than I thought I’d have,” said Zepile. It was the truth. “I’m here in Baleno City to sell off a friend’s collection for them, and I figured while I was here maybe I’d check in on some of my usual clients who have some—let’s say ‘difficult sells’—in their possession that they’ve told me they’ve wanted to offload in the past.”

“And it’s all antiques, I presume?” asked Dr. Teluz. He half-covered the book with the cloth and then slipped off his glove before turning to face Zepile with a look of keen interest. “My contact told me you primarily deal in antiques.”

“Yes, that’s my specialty. But, I also have some non-antique stuff to sell right now, as well.”

“Interesting. Good,” said Dr. Teluz softly. Louder, he asked, “Do you do commissioned work? How long will you be in Baleno City?”

Zepile eyed Dr. Teluz warily after once more glancing around the room. “You want to…hire me?” he asked, not comfortable imaging what work a Nen using, old man flesh collector might need him to do.

“Yes. I want you to bid for me in a few auctions,” said Dr. Teluz. He answered Zepile’s suspicious look by injecting an overflowing abundance of warmth and reassurance into his manner. “You see, I’m having trouble finding anyone who knows how to appraise anything older than a few decades. The dealer I was depending on before was arrested in a sting recently.”

“Ah, well, I’m not planning on being in Baleno City that long,” said Zepile, forcing a hollow laugh. “Not like, get arrested and serve time in jail long.”

“My dealer wasn’t arrested while working for me. I don’t need you to purchase anything illegal,” said Dr. Teluz. “It’s just common practice for some of us in the human body parts market to buy and sell through dealers, intermediaries, people like yourself. My contact told me you seem knowledgeable, so, I arranged this meeting to buy the book from you, and also to meet you and see what sort of person you were. I’m in a rush to find someone as soon as possible. Since the arrest of my usual dealer was so sudden, I’ll need someone to replace him as soon as this weekend. You’ll have to decide quickly.”

Though the offer sounded sincere, Zepile couldn't shake the feeling that the choice he was being given was an illusion. If he didn’t walk out of the office employed by Dr. Teluz, then he might not walk out at all.

“It depends,” he said at last. 

“On what?”

“I’m looking for a buyer for a specific item while I’m here in Baleno City. I’m not sure if you’ll be able to help me out, but if you can put me in contact with the right people, I’ll…I’ll probably even waive my commission fees.”

“It must be important.”

“It’s incredibly rare.”

“What sort of item is it?”

“Scarlet Kurta Eyes.”

Dr. Teluz’s brows came together tightly, though it was in thoughtfulness rather than concern. He drummed his fingers on the desk beside the book, staring down at its cover while his mind worked.

“Those are rare and getting rarer every day,” he said. Zepile nodded.

“I know someone who knows someone who’s been hoarding a lot of them,” said Zepile.

“And they’re selling?” asked Teluz. He didn’t sound too incredulous, though Zepile wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. “How many? Hardly anyone sells off a set of Scarlet Eyes, and especially not in the past few years. Even if a collector's gone bankrupt, Kurta eyes are among the last things to go from their collection.”

“I can’t get into the details of my offer unless you’re willing to buy any or know someone who is.”

Dr. Teluz chuckled in a surprising, genuine burst good humor. “Oh goodness, no, not me,” he said. “That’s not what I’m interested in for my collection. I’m colorblind, so, they’d be a waste on me.”

“Huh,” said Zepile, nodding. “Go figure.”

“But,” continued Dr. Teluz, “I remember there was a flood of them on the market a while ago. Apparently the Kurta Clan is no more, and those were the very last set we’d ever see up for sale new. There are rumors now that someone out there wants the full collection and is snatching eyes up whenever they’re put on sale. Some even say owners of eyes have been extorted into selling them.”

Zepile's primary image of Kurapika played in his mind. It was of a young man with blond hair, still half sick after sleeping for days. Though Zepile had never entered the sickroom, he'd spotted Kurapika once shuffling around the rundown apartment his friends had been using as a hideout to protect him from the Phantom Troupe in York Shin. Over a year since then, Zepile remembered Kurapika not by his face, but by a collection of tired movements and sighs from another room, and a murmuring response through the wall to Leorio’s much louder and more exuberant half of a conversation.

“So, this rumored person who’s hunting the eyes, they're not who you’re working for, are they?” asked Dr. Teluz.

“No,” said Zepile. “I’m working for someone else.”

“Are you sure you are?”

“Incredibly sure.”

Surprisingly, Dr. Teluz believed Zepile. Zepile could see it in his eyes and was impressed with how quickly Dr. Teluz had decided Zepile was worth his trust. He spared a bitter thought for Mizaistom who, though bizarrely humble and cooperative since his random phone call a few hours ago, still didn’t trust Zepile as much as an utter stranger Zepile had known less than an hour now did.

“I can speak to a few people,” said Dr. Teluz. “If you attend the auction for me, you can even meet others who might be interested in what you’re selling. Like I said, Scarlet Eyes are hard to get a hold of nowadays. There’s bound to be people interested.”

“Alright,” said Zepile. “Then, I accept. I’ll attend.”

“Terrific. Let me get the information for you.”

The door opened again, and the shadowy figure stuck its head in. Some unspoken command from Dr. Teluz was transferred through the air. After a pause, the figure nodded, and then shut the door.

“Now, as for this book,” said Dr. Teluz, indicating the item on his desk with a wave to pull Zepile's attention away from the door. "How about four million five hundred thousand?”

“W-what?” asked Zepile. He nearly jumped to his feet, but stopped at merely sitting up straighter. “That’s way too much. Maybe two million would be fair if you want to spend big.”

“I don’t like haggling,” said Dr. Teluz plainly.

“But you’re quoting me nearly twice what it's worth,” said Zepile. “You might not like haggling, but let me tell you, sellers don’t typically try to talk you down on a price. I can’t take that much from you. That’s practically stealing.”

“The other half is something of a retainer.”

Zepile’s eyes widened. “A two million jenny retainer?” He asked with a small gasp of astonishment, not liking the sound of it at all. “That’s a bit steep. I’m not that greedy, and I’m not that trusting. If I accept that level of obligation to you, I might not have enough the time left to sell what I’m in town to sell.”

“It’s not much considering the price points you’ll be working with for me, especially since you won’t take a commission. I think you’ll realize once you begin working that I’ll be getting you fairly cheaply at only two million.”

An instinctive fear began to well up in the pit of Zepile’s stomach once more. Prices were beginning to rise, which signaled that the risk was likely going up along with them. He’d known that this would be exactly the sort of situation he’d be walking into once he began offering items of dubious legality, but something inside him held back from taking the final plunge. Mostly, he hadn’t anticipated that witnessing the overt use of a Nen ability to intimidate him would work so well even after he’d already known what Nen was. If the shadowy figure hadn’t materialized so ominously from the corner, perhaps he’d have already agreed to Dr. Teluz’s offer.

“I’m only in town for a month and a half,” said Zepile, avoiding accepting any sort of contract or advance for services he might not wish to provide. Dr. Teluz sighed and lowered his head. To his credit, he was gradually becoming more and more aware of how his overeagerness to assert himself with a show of Nen was now interfering with his wish to employ Zepile.

“I'll explain what I need,” said Dr. Teluz. “I favor vintage, antique, and historical items, as well as items from other cultures. These are rarer here in Baleno City, since here the fad is more for Hollywood trinkets and rare diseases and deformities. Since you’re a foreigner specializing in antiques, I think you’ll be useful in finding more of the sorts of things I want. It’s not all going to be illegal or dangerous. I need someone who can appraise antiques, and who might have connections to rare items from other countries where you usually operate.”

“I don't have access to a whole lot,” said Zepile. “I might know of four or five more items, maximum. Also, this is my first time even dealing with body parts and collectable items made out of human beings. I’m not exactly an expert.”

“You don’t have to be an expert. There are no real experts,” said Dr. Teluz with a smile. Zepile wasn't sure if he was being reassured or condescended to. “The majority of traders in the flesh collecting market don’t specialize in only human remains. It’s typically more of an extension of their usual work in medical science or anthropology, or antiques and collectables trading. I have one source who’s a furniture upholster with a personal passion for antique furniture, and he always calls me up when something human catches his eye, since he knows I’ll be interested.”

“I still don’t want to be caught in a long term agreement,” said Zepile. “I’m serious. Once I sell what I have, I’m out. I’ll do the auction thing because it’s useful to both of us, and it’s legal. You can pay me a hundred thousand jenny max if you feel generous. If there are any other jobs after that, you can pay me on a case-by-case basis. I won’t take advances, though. I don’t want to deal with that sort of a commitment.”

The truth was Zepile also didn’t want to deal with exorbitant sums, either. The money from the sale of the book would be sent to his client with a portion taken out to pay the dealer, who could launder their cut through their shop. Zepile himself would take nothing and leave no trace of his part in the transaction. It hurt to see the huge amounts of money passing him by untouched, but Zepile, like Mizaistom (although Mizaistom would’ve found it hard to believe if he saw what Zepile was up to now) wasn’t in this market to make a profit. He’d made a promise to Leorio that he’d help locate Kurapika, and that mission had priority over his own personal gain.

Zepile didn’t count his other vague promise to Mizaistom to stay out of trouble. Technically, he’d only promised to keep Mizaistom’s money clean, and none of Mizaistom’s money, not even the stipend Zepile was receiving for daily expenses, had gone into this deal. Zepile hadn’t even bought the metro train ticket to head out to the university district with Mizaistom’s money. Everything came out of Zepile’s own pocket, so much so that whenever he opened his own personal bank account to check his balance, he winced and muttered admonishments to himself about the high and quite literal price he was willing to pay for the sake of friendship.

“I’ll accept your terms,” said Dr. Teluz. It was the only way he was going to get Zepile to work for him by that weekend. “Whatever makes you most comfortable, that’s what we’ll agree on, especially since I feel personally responsible for how uncomfortable you’ve been made to feel since arriving here.” He smiled and held out a hand for Zepile to shake. “So, it’s two million and five hundred thousand jenny for the book, in cash. Then, an additional one hundred thousand jenny to contract you for the auction this weekend. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Zepile, “but the one hundred thousand won’t have to be paid right now. You can pay me that later once you’ve written up a contract to hire me officially.”

“Ah yes, right, that part’s legal,” said Dr. Teluz with a chuckle. “So, I’ll just be paying for the book, then?”

“If you want it now, yes.”

“Excellent. One moment.”

The door opened and the shadowy figure stepped into the room and set a box down on the desk. As though aware of Zepile’s inadvertent cringe, the figure bowed hastily and backed out of the room in attempt to appear courteous and unthreatening. Zepile’s fear of it failed to lessen by any considerable measure, and he breathed a sigh of relief once it had gone.

“Alright, let’s count out your payment,” said Dr. Teluz merrily, opening the box to reveal stacks of bills neatly counted and tucked into rows. “Be careful with this. Maybe take a taxi home. You don’t want to lose two million and five hundred thousand jenny, you know.”

Zepile nodded dully as he watched Dr. Teluz separate the two million and five hundred out from the initial four million and five hundred he’d prepared beforehand. Zepile’s gaze lingered wistfully on the remaining, unpaid amount still in the case as Dr. Teluz double-checked the full payment.

“Here you are: Ten ten thousand bills ten times twice for two million, plus ten ten thousand bills five times for five hundred thousand,” said Dr. Teluz, counting along as he gathered the bills together and then bound them up in stacks of a half a million each with rubber bands. Without a word, Zepile accept the money and slipped it into his bag.

“Contact me through the shop once you have the contract ready,” said Zepile, thankful to be free to leave after long last. He and Dr. Teluz shook hands once more in a farewell, and then Zepile, taking a quick breath to steady himself for whatever might be waiting on the other side, went to opened the door and go.

The hallway outside the office was deserted. Zepile looked back, ready to comment on it to Dr. Teluz, but froze without a word leaving his mouth.

At the back corners of the office, in the deepest shadows, two silent figures stood with gloved hands crossed in front of them. A third, the one with a gun, stood just behind Dr. Teluz at his shoulder. Dr. Teluz smiled at Zepile and waved to him before returning to reading through the freshly purchased book on his desk. Zepile stammered out a quick goodbye and all but ran from the office and down the hall. He took the stairs two and three at a time to the ground floor and was out onto the street in under a minute. The nighttime shadows that had fallen in the meantime filled him with dread as he imagined them closing in, taking shape, walking in step behind him before reaching out to pull him away with gloved hands into the darkness at the corners of his eyes.


	11. Trouble

Zepile had forgot that Mizaistom would arrive so early in the morning. He hurried to clear the table and couch of paperwork, mostly antiques’ guides, histories, and a few letters of provenance he’d been using to inform his appraisals. Thankfully, nothing related to his recent independent work had been left out in the open, though for a few seconds Zepile had been anxious that there might've been something he’d overlooked. He apologized more than once for the mess as he scurried about, saying he’d got too accustomed to being on his own and hadn’t thought twice about using the social spaces of the hotel room, such as the small sitting area near the window, as storage. Mizaistom, with his current, kinder disposition making him more lenient than usual, said he didn’t mind, and also that the clutter was a sure sign Zepile was working hard. Zepile couldn't help but scoff at that, though it was actually a little true.

“As for an update on my schedule,” said Zepile once he’d cleared a spot for Mizaistom and invited him to take a seat, “there’s an auction this weekend I’m attending. I was invited by someone I’ve met through a local dealer. I’ll be doing some on-the-side bidding for them. It’s nothing illegal. I have the contract right here. It’s a normal auction and everything. The stock’s primarily from a rich doctor who’s been accused of colluding with the mafia. The family wants to sell off parts of the estate to help cover court fees, and my new client is interested in seeing what’s for sale. I’ll get the catalogue from him tomorrow.”

“Good,” said Mizaistom with a small nod of approval. “You seem to be making progress.”

“I told you to trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

“Of course. And the Scarlet Eyes?”

Zepile frowned at how quickly Mizaistom cut to the most contentious point. He hadn’t been sitting down for five minutes, and he was already bringing up the Scarlet Eyes without so much as letting Zepile catch is breath. Luckily for Mizaistom and Zepile both, Zepile had more to say on that subject than usual.

“I keep hearing the same thing,” said Zepile. Mizaistom leaned forward, surprised and intrigued Zepile had heard anything so far. “They’re rare and getting rarer. Someone’s been buying them all up. That has to be Kurapika, right? Well, anyway, I’ve dropped some hints that I have information about someone looking to sell some eyes. I’ve also hinted that they have quite a large amount of them. That should get some folks interested. I hope to spread the word around even more when I’m at the auction. There ought be all sorts of people in attendance.”

“That’s terrific,” said Mizaistom, genuinely pleased to hear it. What wasn’t so terrific, he realized with an awkward start, was the sight of Zepile in his pyjamas and half-asleep sitting across from him on the edge of the coffee table. Though there were five chairs and a couch in the room, the coffee table had been among the clearest spaces where Zepile could sit.

“Does this time of the morning not work for you? Do you normally sleep late?” asked Mizaistom. Zepile wasn’t surprised Mizaistom had noticed, though he was surprised he’d asked. Zepile had literally woken up fifteen minutes ago to the sound of Mizaistom knocking on his hotel room door. There'd been no time to dress, and he'd been waiting ever since Mizaistom had shown up for Mizaistom to chastise him over it like he was a teenager.

“Oh, uh, not really,” admitted Zepile, stifling a shallow yawn. “My hours are all over the place.”

“Should I come back later? I might have some time this evening after I check in on my team. When will you be in?”

“Um. Seven? Eight? Maybe?” said Zepile, picking times a random.

“Okay. I’ll stop by again, and we’ll have a more in-depth discussion. You should rest in the meantime.”

All of the sudden rest was the furthest thing from Zepile’s mind. “A more in-depth discussion?” he asked. “About what?”

“About the case in general.”

Zepile needed an answer more specific than that. He needed to know what kind of attitude Mizaistom was going to have when he came back. After a long day out and about soliciting dealers to buy from his stock, Zepile wasn’t likely to have a whole lot of patience left over.

“Remember when you called me out to talk to you in Swaldani City?” asked Mizaistom. Zepile nodded and frowned. “Well, I think that I should insist on something similar now. I think we need to have a frank discussion about the case and how it’s been progressing so far.”

“Is there a problem here or something?” asked Zepile. He longed to be in bed, fast asleep. It’d taken him too long to get to sleep the night before and every night since he’d met Dr. Teluz and seen the supernatural ability the old man had called his “associates”. The sleeplessness was catching up to him now, and he regretted that he’d been forced to interrupt what little sleep he’d acquired over the past night just to hear Mizaistom give him bad news.

“It's more than one problem,” said Mizaistom. Zepile let out a groan. “But the problems aren’t to do with the work you’re doing here.” Zepile scoffed in disbelief. “They’re more to do with how I’ve been handling this case so far.”

Zepile frowned and stared at Mizaistom, not sure he believed him. “Uh, what…?” he asked.

“I want to clear the air, so to speak, make myself understood. Perhaps you’ll even suggest some improvements to how I’m handling the case so far." Mizaistom sounded like he sincerely doubted that. "Well, I’m not sure. We'll see. But, we definitely need to have a frank discussion.”

“Oh…okay,” said Zepile. He had the same strange feeling he’d got when Mizaistom had called a few days ago and apologized for threatening him with a lawsuit if he dared to spend Mizaistom’s money the wrong way. Zepile had already guessed that Mizaistom was a strict person with high moral standards. It was refreshing to see that those standards extended to Mizaistom himself as much as anyone else. Mizaistom was all about righting wrongs, wherever they might come from, and this meant that Zepile could expect a fair amount of sincere apologies from him in the future. Zepile held back a tired sigh at the thought. He wasn’t looking forward to navigating the social awkwardness that would inevitably result.

“So, should I stop by later?” asked Mizaistom to make sure. “Or perhaps tomorrow morning again if that’s a better time?”

Zepile shrugged. “Sure. Tonight. It won’t be a problem," he said. As Mizaistom thanked him for his time and promptly departed, he thought to himself that, as far as business associates went, it probably could’ve been worse. Maybe. He let the thought console him as he groaned and stood up, and then got ready for the long day ahead.

  
  


* * *

  
  


That evening, closer to eight than seven, Mizaistom returned. This made him early, and he waited alone in the hall for a full half hour before Zepile came hurrying to meet him. 

Zepile had run late trying to hook a potential buyer with the tempting offer of a crystal vial containing the hair of a dead prince who’d given two hundred other such vials away as wedding favors before his premature death of plague. Zepile hadn’t made the sale in the end, and as usual, it’d brought his mood down. Needless to say, the sight of Mizaistom standing there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed outside the hotel room, hadn't been the most welcoming sight to come home to right after.

“As you may have guessed, I was convinced by Leorio to ease up on how hard I’ve been pressing you in this mission,” said Mizaistom. He’d dove straight into this explanation without Zepile needing to prompt him. It’d been on his mind for a while now, waiting in the hallway. Zepile only barely heard him over the running the sink as he washed his hands and face. “He knows you well,” Mizaistom went on louder. “I should’ve consulted with him sooner.”

“You should’ve just believed me when I said I knew what I was doing,” grumbled Zepile as he stepped out of the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel that he tossed back behind him. He winced when it fell off the sink he’d been aiming for and landed with a crumple of plastic into the trash bin.

“That’s true,” agreed Mizaistom solemnly. “I should’ve listened. I apologize.”

Zepile shook his head as he went to the desk and set down a bag of ready-made foods he’d bought in a convenience store on the way home. Zepile might’ve been in a hurry from running late, but he hadn’t been about to let himself starve for the sake of punctuality.

“Just don’t, please,” he said as he set his laptop on the bed behind him to make more room on the desk. “Don’t bother with that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t apologize so much,” said Zepile. “I get it. I’ll start to feel bad, like you think I’m always mad at you. I’m not. Not really.”

“You were upset before.”

“Well, yeah. I was," admitted Zepile. "But at the same time, I think I also told you that I’m used to people not trusting me very much to begin with. That’s old hat for me.” He pointed to the couch without looking over at Mizaistom. “Just sit down, okay? I’m going to eat. It’s almost nine, and I haven’t had anything since noon. Excuse me.”

Not waiting for a reply, Zepile unpacked his bag of miscellaneous food. If he hadn’t traveled so far to get to Zepile’s hotel, Mizaistom would’ve excused himself right then and left so Zepile could eat in peace. However, coming all this way for a five minute conversation hadn’t been Mizaistom's intention. He would've called otherwise.

“So, anyway,” Zepile continued after the lull in conversation began to drag, “As I said, I’m used to getting judged pretty harshly by strangers. And if they find out I used to be a counterfeiter? Forget it.” He opened a bottle of juice after shaking it and took a quick sip before grimacing at how unexpectedly thick it was. He set it back down in disgust. “So, relax about that. I don’t hate your guts. Getting annoyed and feeling outright loathing for someone are two very different reactions. Plus, in my profession, you have to be a people person. It literally doesn’t pay if you’re too quick to despise people over unimportant things.”

Zepile’s stomach interjected with a long, plaintive whine as he finally took a seat at the desk and unwrapped a sandwich. Mizaistom looked away respectfully. He noticed for the first time that the hotel room was far neater than it’d been that morning. Zepile had tidied it up instead of going back to sleep as he should have, but Mizaistom refrained from commenting on that. Zepile had made his own choice.

“I’m curious about something, and I’m wondering if you can help me,” said Mizaistom when Zepile had finished wolfing down his first sandwich and moved on to greedily tearing open a sort of vegetable filled wrap he sarcastically referred to as his salad course. “It’s about Leorio and Kurapika.”

Zepile grunted for him to continue as he re-tightened the roll of the vegetable wrap to improve its cohesion before he took his first bite.

“Are they very close? Or, were they very close in the past?”

Zepile froze, his mouth full of lettuce and crumbled cheese. Mizaistom motioned for him to take his time, that there was no hurry. Gradually Zepile began to chew, but with a plainly incredulous slowness as he continued to eye Mizaistom warily over his vegetable wrap.

“Leorio seems very affected by everything going on with Kurapika,” explained Mizaistom while Zepile finished eating. “He appears to be sentimental, and the way he reacted when I had him look through the photos I’d collected of Nostrade family associates—well, there was a specific sort of nostalgia there. I was thinking the two of them must’ve been close for him to have that sort of look. There was regret in it. Did they have a falling out, perhaps?”

“Nope. Leorio would’ve told me about it if they had. He’s not so great at keeping his hurt feelings to himself.”

“Huh,” said Mizaistom. Zepile sighed and lowered the vegetable wrap.

“No, you see, the thing is,” said Zepile, “is that Leorio worries about absolutely everyone. And Kurapika, well, Kurapika gives him more to worry about than most.”

“Is that a very good temperament for a doctor to have?”

“I don’t know,” said Zepile. He readjusted his grip on the last section of the vegetable wrap that had sneakily begun to unravel in his hands. “I think that sort of feeling is why they don’t generally want doctors to treat their own family or close friends, though, right? Ruins their professional objectivity.”

“True. A similar dilemma arises when representing family members or friends in court. The additional emotions involved might affect one’s professional legal judgment, not to mention the obvious fact that if the case doesn’t yield a favorable outcome for the client…well, that could make for a complicated personal situation afterwards.”

Zepile laughed a little, knowingly. “Lucky for me, I haven’t got friends or family interested in art or antiques," he said. "I’m in the clear.”

Zepile leaned across the desk to a drawer on the right hand side and removed a packet of wet napkins. He tore it open without looking, filling the immediate area with the smell of citrus and antibacterial cleansing solution.

“Anyway,” he said as he cleaned his hands and then wiped the surface of the desk, making sure to collect the crumbs in his palm. “Is this all you wanted to talk about? Really? Or did you just want to extra apologize, and now you've done that, you have to pad out the rest of the conversation with gossip about Leorio?”

Mizaistom looked away. Zepile stood up and went to throw the empty containers and wet napkin in the trash. On the way back, he stopped to put the bottle of rejected juice and the second half of his vegetable wrap into the refrigerator. Before shutting the door, he hesitated, and then took out a beer.

“I’m going to have a drink and watch tv, if you don’t mind” announced Zepile. “It’s been a long couple of days, and this is my first relatively free evening to just relax.”

“Shouldn’t you prepare for the auction this weekend?” asked Mizaistom. Almost immediately, he reconsidered what he’d said and corrected himself. “Well, what I mean is that it seems natural to me that you’ll need to do research on what’s going to be for sale before you attend so that you spend your money wisely.”

“I’ll have the catalogue tomorrow. No point getting ahead of myself,” said Zepile. He went to sit on the bed and placed his beer atop the bedside table next to the TV remote. He didn’t miss Mizaistom’s critical glance. “It’s okay, Mizaistom,” he said. “If I don’t take a break every now and then, I’ll be fuzzy headed and useless when I need to be sharp. Maybe you Hunters don’t need or value sleep and relaxation, but I’m a normal guy. You’re welcome to join me if you want. If you're even capable of chilling out.”

“I should go back,” said Mizaistom. Zepile waved as he took up the remote and turned on the TV.

“Your decision,” said Zepile. “I’m not keeping you.”

It surprised Mizaistom, how quickly Zepile seemed to forget he was there as he flicked through TV channels in a flash, searching for something mindless to watch while he drank his beer. Mizaistom’s earlier, nagging feeling of dissatisfaction urged him not to leave so soon, but he set the feeling aside as he reached the door, telling himself it was time, and that literally glueing himself to Zepile wasn’t what Leorio had meant when he’d told Mizaistom to keep a close eye on him. If anything, sticking around was worse, because it implied he didn’t think Zepile could look after himself.

“My schedule’s a little different from before, so, I’ll be in town for about a week,” said Mizaistom. Zepile muted the TV in the middle of a commercial for mops. “We’ll meet up again before I leave.”

“Cool,” said Zepile. “See you.”

“Goodnight,” said Mizaistom. "Get some sleep."

  
  


* * *

  
  


Thirty minutes later, Mizaistom hadn’t gone anywhere. No matter how much he’d tried to convince himself it was more polite to go, it wouldn’t have felt worth his while if he’d traveled all the way out to not only this hotel, but also to Baleno City itself, just to leave after hardly a half hour’s worth of talk that could’ve been achieved over the phone in less time.

This realization, along with the impetuous decision to stay, had struck Mizaistom right as he’d been opening the door. He’d shut it without taking a step past the threshold and re-entered the room so suddenly Zepile ended up choking on a sip of beer in surprise and swore at him. Unsure what to talk about, Mizaistom had awkwardly accepted Zepile’s now much hoarser offer of a beer and took a seat on the couch again.

Though he was pointed towards the screen, Mizaistom wasn’t really watching the TV along with Zepile. He pretended not to notice Zepile’s curious glances over to him as the minutes passed. He was waiting for Mizaistom to clarify why he was hanging around. 

Mizaistom, too, was trying to come up with a good reason. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he and Zepile only really had one other bond between them that wasn’t the mission: Leorio Paladiknight. When Zepile muted the tv for another commercial break, Mizaistom took a deep breath and started to share. He explained to Zepile what had taken place during the Hunter Association chairman elections a few months before, stressing how Leorio had nearly won the entire election against trusted, veteran Hunters with far more political power than him, and why this had ultimately made him a good candidate to join the Zodiacs on the eve of their contentious expedition to the Dark Continent with the Kakin Empire and Beyond Netero.

Zepile listened without interrupting. He didn’t even take a sip of is beer until Mizaistom was finished. Of the whole election story, Zepile said he'd only known the part about Gon being sick. Leorio had called him at the time as an anxious friend looking for consolation and a sympathetic ear to his tedious cycle of complaints about Kurapika never picking up his damn phone. Zepile hadn’t heard much more from Leorio afterwards except for a tearful update that Gon had miraculously recovered, and then a vague excuse about Leorio having been tied up in Hunter Association problems since they’d last spoke, hence the radio silence. For his part, Zepile hadn’t asked for too many details. He’d been too relieved about Gon to care about anything to do with the Hunter Association.

“So, now, he’s asked you to wrangle Kurapika for him, basically? That’s what Leorio’s up to?” asked Zepile to make sure. Though Zepile was Leorio’s trusted friend, even he sounded suspicious of Leorio’s true motives.

“It would seem that way. He's quite invested.”

“Okay. Well, thanks for telling me, I guess,” said Zepile. He rose out of the bed to grab a second beer from the refrigerator. He’d turned the TV off while Mizaistom had explained about the election, but he hadn’t gone back on his plan to drink.

“You know, well, I guess I feel a little more included now,” said Zepile as he opened the beer. “Not that I think Leorio was keeping all that stuff a secret. I just never asked him, and anyway, if you ask me, it kinda sounds like once Gon was better, Leorio stopped caring about your chairman election, so, he never had a real reason to bring it up.”

“The part about recruiting him and Kurapika for the Zodiacs isn’t common knowledge,” warned Mizaistom. “Don’t spread that around. Cheadle told the other Zodiacs she’s looking for replacements for Pariston and Ging, but she’s leaving the work to me behind the scenes. Only a small handful of people know the candidates she’s actually chosen.”

“And you trust me with that kind of top secret stuff?” asked Zepile. He made a doubtful face and saluted Mizaistom with the freshly open beer before heading back to the bed. “Alright, then. That’s at your own risk. Though to be fair, I guess I wouldn’t know who to tell all this information to anyway to screw you over. I don’t even know any Hunters besides Gon and everyone. Oh, and I guess you now, too.” He stopped a moment and thought about it, doing a few quick sums in the air in front of him. “Damn,” he muttered. “I think I know like five or six Hunters now. I’m not sure if I should count Kurapika, but still. Damn. Before last year, and for like my entire life, I knew _zero_. That's crazy.”

Zepile took a long, deliberate drink from his can of beer and then sat slowly back down on the edge of the bed. He looked over at Mizaistom a few times cautiously, as though amazed and deeply uncomfortable at the reminder that he was literally speaking to a fully qualified, professional Hunter at that very moment.

“You’re correct that telling you all of this takes significant trust in you on my part,” said Mizaistom. “However, I’ve decided it’s worth the risk in case you run into Kurapika on your own and have an opportunity to explain a few things to him. If he meets with you before me, and you’re not able to answer enough of his questions, he might just assume Leorio’s being nosey and turn you down when you ask him to meet with me next. I want you know enough to confirm my intentions and assure him that I really do have information for him about the Scarlet Eyes. If he joins the Zodiacs, he might be able to recover the last of them during our mission.”

Zepile lowered his beer and gaped at Mizaistom. “His clansmen’s eyes are on the Dark Continent?” he asked, amazed they'd got so far. Mizaistom hung his head in disbelief. 

“Uh…no,” said Mizaistom. “That would be impossible.”

“I thought you were traveling to the Dark Continent with the Kakin Empire?”

“We are, but I can’t tell you how it’s connected. Kurapika will have to meet with me in person for that information.”

“Does Leorio know where they are? Knowing Kurapika, he’ll skip you and go straight to Leorio, and Leorio will definitely tell him.”

“No, Leorio doesn’t know. The only other people who know where the eyes are have no idea I’m searching for Kurapika.”

“I see,” said Zepile. He took another long sip of beer and then made a disappointed face when he noticed he’d drunk almost all of it in less than five minutes.

“You’re sticking around a while, right?" asked Zepile. It was less of a question than a statement of fact he'd politely shaped into an uncertainty for Mizaistom's sake. "Want snacks? I should probably eat a little more right now. Tomorrow's a late start for me, but I still have work to do.”

Mizaistom looked down at his own half drunk beer, not even close to feeling it at the snail’s pace he was going. He checked the time, but had already decided he could leave once Zepile needed to turn in. It didn’t seem like it would take much longer. He sincerely hoped Zepile didn't drink like this every time he had a night free to relax, but it wasn't something he could ask Zepile about without sounding rude or judgmental. He accepted that it might partly be his own fault anyway, since he was probably keeping Zepile up.

“I guess,” said Mizaistom. "What do you have?"

From a seemingly endless supply in the closet, Zepile brought over a selection of salty snacks and told Mizaistom to choose something. He then brought two of his own choices and placed all three on the coffee table. Mizaistom moved to make room on the couch, but Zepile took a seat on the floor across from him instead and began cutting open the sides of the bags with scissors to turn them into their own serving bowls. When he finished, he took a generous handful from the nearest bag and leaned back. Mizaistom questioned how much was left of Zepile’s sobriety as he watched him eat chip after individual chip with an odd, single-minded focus from the napkin he'd placed them on, relishing nothing but performing the task dutifully while it was on the forefront of his mind as if he ran the risk of forgetting to eat anything if he dawdled.

“Alright, so, you want to know about Leorio,” said Zepile before Mizaistom had been able to come up with anything to say himself. “I get it. He almost got himself put in charge of your whole private Hunter club, and that’s probably crazy. In fact, I think that’s crazy, and I’m his friend. You don’t even know him as well as I do. However, I would trust him with my life, if that counts for anything.”

“You think I'm investigating Leorio Paladiknight?” asked Mizaistom with a tired sigh. “Actually I—”

“I’m not sure,” Zepile interrupted him, “but at any rate, it’s something we have in common, and I have a lot of stories.” He took a new handful of chips and continued eating them one at a time as he spoke. “If you want to hear about his amazing haggling skills, count me as a witness to that. If you want to hear about how anxious he gets over his friends, or how well he’s doing in school, or what his favorite drink is, I know all that, too. And, to top it all off, I’m friends with Gon and Killua, which means I know stuff Leorio hasn’t even told me. In short, I’m a pretty good resource.”

Mizaistom shook his head as he took a few chips politely from the bag he'd chosen. “You seem far more forthcoming about Leorio than Leorio has been about you or Kurapika,” he said. “Are you sure you’re his friend?”

“I’m totally his friend,” said Zepile with an intentionally suspicious level of enthusiasm. Mizaistom ignored the attempt at humor. “Well, anyway, Kurapika and I just have more things to hide. Leorio, however, is pretty much an open book. I can help you skip around to all the relevant chapters.”

“What would I even need to know about him?” asked Mizaistom. “I already know the kind of person he is, more or less. Everything else is just background information. I'm not that curious.”

“Drinking stories it is, then,” cheered Zepile, bringing up his beer triumphantly in an unanswered toast. “He has a lot of those. In his country you can drink when you’re sixteen, so, you know, years of opportunities to get into trouble right there.”

“You don’t have to share his drinking stories,” said Mizaistom. He looked over to the hotel room door, considering it. “I insist. I don’t really want to know.”

“You’re going to know,” said Zepile. “Talking about our mission will get us into an argument. Talking about our own lives isn’t interesting. And, since you’ve already told the one good story you have about Leorio, it’s up to me to provide the rest. So, relax, take it easy, and learn.”

Without any further adieu, Zepile began telling the first ridiculous story that popped into his head. It was simple and short, something about Leorio trying and succeeding at getting drunk off of homemade liqueur-filled chocolates when he was nine and how the experience had ingrained in him an aversion to most liqueur-filled sweets and fruit-flavored syrups ever since. Mizaistom waited for more, perhaps maybe a moral or a more conclusive ending, but that was it; the end. After he’d finished this brief, sad excuse for a story, Zepile jokingly asked if this was the sort of thing Mizaistom had wanted to know. Mizaistom insisted again, firmer this time, that it absolutely wasn’t. He hadn't asked to know anything about Leorio Paladinknight.

“Hey, do you mind if I smoke?”

Mizaistom shook his head, and Zepile got up to get cigarettes from the bedside table. Once the snacks had been set out, Mizaistom had been obliged to finish his first beer a little faster. As Zepile returned with his cigarettes, he brought Mizaistom a second can from the refrigerator. Mizaistom accepted it, but secretly hoped Zepile would soon grow tired enough to stop keeping count.

“So, do you want a real answer for your question about Leorio and Kurapika, then?” asked Zepile around the cigarette he’d just set between his lips. “I could tell by your face that I didn’t answer what you were really trying to ask me with that.”

Mizaistom didn't like the look in Zepile's eye. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Zepile finished lighting the cigarette and pulled it away, holding it strangely between the pinky and ring finger of his left hand as he set the lighter on the coffee table.

“I mean it’s suspicious when curious guys like you ask about this kind of stuff. You’re asking something else.”

It was difficult for Mizaistom to tell if Zepile, tipsy as he was, was serious or only baiting him because he was bored. If it were the latter, Zepile would have to try a lot harder to see Mizaistom squirm.

“You're accusing me of indirectly asking if they were involved romantically,” said Mizaistom, cold and matter-of-fact. “Or at least if there’s some sort of history like that between them?”

“Well, weren’t you?”

“Was I?”

“Well…” said Zepile, putting his right hand on the ground behind him for support in order to lean back and meet Mizaistom’s eye more easily. “You literally asked if they had a falling out. You said they must’ve been close. You made it sound like you figured Leorio was heartbroken or pining for something. So, maybe you were making some personal assumptions there that you wanted me to verify?”

“It’s something else entirely,” said Mizaistom. He reached over for another handful of chips but was concerned how parched they would make him if he had too many. “While there may have been an implication of some deeper relationship between Kurapika and Leorio in my question, it’s the contrast between how Leorio speaks and presents himself, and then, how he acts in spite of that, which is more intriguing to me. I wasn't trying to gossip about him and Kurapika. It's the contradiction I was interested in.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Well, it’s an unnecessary detail I left out when I told you about the elections, but Leorio announced to the entire Hunter Association in a campaign speech that he picks up women and sits around his apartment jerking off in his free time. That doesn’t make it seem like he’s heartbroken or pining for very much.”

Zepile snorted and hunched forward with laughter, but choked on a breath of smoke he’d inhaled too suddenly. In seconds, he’d collapsed into a fit of coughing, stinging tears filling his eyes. “What?” he sputtered out hoarsely. “He said that? Leorio? Seriously?”

Mizaistom nodded, solemn and sincere, observing Zepile with mild disinterest as he gradually recovered.

“Huh,” said Zepile. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sat up. “I mean, not a surprise. The guy’s an open book you can’t even shut once it's flung itself open. He doesn’t have time for a girlfriend with the whole medical school thing, but hey, he’s not bad with girls. Girls like him.”

“Good for him,” said Mizaistom. The smoke in the room was starting to give him a headache. He was surprised Zepile wasn’t more tired yet. It was late, and the alcohol should’ve been slowing him down. If it weren’t for jet lag, Mizaistom himself would’ve started feeling the time, too.

“So, do you want a real answer?” asked Zepile again.

“What?”

“To your question about Leorio and Kurapika.”

Mizaistom rolled the damp beer can between his palms, in no hurry to drink it. “How do you assume you can read so much into a single question I asked over an hour ago?” he said. “I'm not interested in gossip, and I’m reluctant to accept your offer of a ‘real’ answer anyway, because I feel as if you’re simply making things up, just trying to get a reaction out of me. With me, this kind of topic won’t prove very entertaining for you. You can let it go already if making me uncomfortable is all you’re really trying to accomplish here.”

“I’m sincere.”

“You say, but you’re smirking even now.”

“I’m smiling because I’m in a good mood.”

“You’re in a terrible mood, and the smoking and drinking are barely compensating for it. Normally, I wouldn't take an interest in someone's personal problems, but I'm relying on you for this mission, so, I'm trying to see if I can figure out what it is by allowing us to talk in a more relaxed setting. You just keep going on about Leorio, however, preventing me. That's very disconcerting.”

Zepile stopped smiling or smirking or whatever it’d truly been. His large eyebrows came together, nearly touching and becoming a single, solid swish across his forehead.

“You’re a drag to be around even over a friendly beer,” said Zepile as if he were astounded by the discovery. "You're never off the clock for a minute, are you?" 

"I apologize for my intrusiveness, but I'm relying on you too much to ignore whatever's going on, even if it's not a result of the mission." Mizaistom paused and took a deep breath before pressing on. “So, what's the problem?” he asked. 

“You, obviously.”

“I don’t think it’s me.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Leorio told me you’re proud and try to do everything alone, your own way. When you get into trouble for whatever reason, you keep it to yourself.”

“I work better by myself. Sort of a habit. Antiques trading isn’t really a team sport. Leorio just takes it too personally whenever he's left out of anything.”

“Even so, I don’t believe you should treat this mission, where we have to work together, like it’s the same as your independent antique trading.”

“What’s your point?”

“Are you in some kind of trouble? Tell me.”

Zepile was on his fourth beer in under an hour and finished it all in one go instead of giving Mizaistom an answer. Mizaistom’s hand inched for the cards in his jacket pocket as he watched Zepile debate with himself over getting up for a fifth. He decided against it and set the empty can on the table, choosing to light another cigarette instead.

“I was hoping,” said Zepile as he slowly exhaled a lungful of smoke, “that talking some bullshit about Leorio would put me in a good mood. It’s only been a very slight distraction, however.” He smiled to himself without looking at Mizaistom. “Granted, it’s hard to get much out of a conversation if you’re the one doing eighty-percent of the talking.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Mizaistom more insistently. Zepile shook his head and flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette.

“I’m not going to jeopardize this mission for your ego,” Mizaistom warned him. “If you won’t tell me what’s gone wrong, I’ll find it out myself.”

“Do it,” said Zepile as he stamped out the cigarette prematurely into the ashtray on the table. “You’re nosey and like to play detective. You're in the right profession. Have fun. But, don’t come complaining to me when you can’t find Kurapika because you spent too much time investigating me and my problems instead of his whereabouts.”

Zepile rose unsteadily to his feet and stretched high before a wave of dizziness nearly toppled him over. He waited a moment for his head to stop spinning, then dragged himself back over to the bed and collapsed facedown into it. It was a while before he could find the willpower to roll himself over onto his back. Mizaistom said something he didn’t catch, then something else about leaving. Zepile heard him tidying up and told him to stop, but he wasn’t sure if Mizaistom heard him or even planned to heed him if he had.

“Go,” said Zepile as he pulled himself up onto the pillows. “Go,” he repeated with greater insistence. “Go away, I'm sleeping.”

He didn’t know if Mizaistom left right when he told him to, or if it were much later. He didn’t really care, because tomorrow he had nowhere to be until noon, and the faster he fell asleep, the faster he could wake up to a refreshingly Mizaistom-free room.


	12. Auction Day

Businesslike and better dressed than when he spent the day hoofing it from shop to shop, Zepile stepped out from his client’s hired car and crossed the short distance from the street to the auction hall door. He’d brought along every ounce of esteem and knowledgeability his career selling and bidding in auctions around the world had imbued him with. In his mind, he recited his client’s list of items and maximum price points exactly, though he carried a small notebook with reminders just in case any discrepancies arose between an item on display and its description in the auction catalogue. The stock for sale had belonged to a wealthy, mafia-colluding doctor, so naturally most of the valuable antique items were historical medical equipment with almost nothing to do with body parts collecting. Accordingly, his client’s list had many comparatively mundane collectible items on it. He wouldn’t have sent someone discreet like Zepile in his stead, however, if harmless medical antiques were all he’d been after.

Zepile kept to himself as he assessed what he dubbed the “normal” items on display in the main saleroom. It was because Dr. Teluz wasn’t primarily a flesh collector that he’d been so insistent about finding an advocate with dual experience. When they’d met again, in full daylight with every window in Dr. Teluz’s office open and not a shadow in sight, Dr. Teluz had explained to Zepile that he only brought out his “associates” when he was dealing with people attached to the underground flesh collectors market. It was a way of ensuring his safety from whatever criminal he might be dealing with. He hoped to reassure Zepile by explaining, and apologized for the fright he must’ve given him earlier in the week. Zepile had accepted his apology without dwelling much on it, making it clear that he preferred they discuss the business at hand rather than bring up Dr. Teluz’s “associates” ever again. Dr. Teluz had agreed and hurried to present Zepile with his official contract, as well all pertinent auction information.

Now, it was time to scope out what was on offer. In addition to searching out and assessing his client’s items, Zepile checked in on a few others that had interested him personally, mostly prints and a set of cufflinks he knew he’d have a guaranteed buyer for back home. Mizaistom hadn’t said anything about Zepile being prohibited from conducting his own, totally legal business while on their mission. In fact, Zepile liked to imagine his interest in “normal” antiques added a touch of authenticity to his act. If he was in Baleno City for work, then it stood to reason he shouldn’t ever stop working.

Zepile lingered over the antiques as long as he could, pacing and delaying until he couldn’t afford to waste another minute avoiding the notorious second saleroom he'd been dreading since he’d arrived to the auction hall. Although selling collectable human remains was legal in Baleno City, the auctioning of such items was far more discreet than a standard antiques auction. Before he could enter the saleroom for a look around, Zepile needed to sign in. He presented a seemingly generic invitation given to him by Dr. Teluz, which Mizaistom had taken one look at the day before and told him contained an inscription written in Nen ink. The invitation was taken from Zepile at the door and presented to someone in another room. It came back stamped soon after in three places to confirm its authenticity so that he could use it to come and go more quickly later on when the auction finally began.

As if the unorthodox merchandise weren't odd or off-putting enough, the second saleroom itself was unlike any Zepile had ever bid in. The immediate darkness that enveloped him as he passed through the door disoriented him and made it difficult to get a feel for how many people were there. All he could see clearly were the illuminated items on tables and not much else. Dr. Teluz had given Zepile something of a primer on flesh collecting culture, explaining that, while many big collectors were known by name or by a specific handle associated with their backgrounds or interests, flesh collecting was still an insular world. In the modern age, collections were rarely displayed casually, though in the past it’d been common for collectors to decorate their homes with their favorite pieces set in places of honor, with minor pieces scattered about as accents. Now, such a blatant and shallow display was seen as disrespectful, since current trends were all about appreciating the provenance of one’s most coveted and difficultly obtain items. Hence, instead of putting a row of jars on display on a shelf as a conversation piece, it was in much better taste to design a proper exhibit. If one owned the hair of a particular actress, for example, the vial should be surrounded with photos and memorabilia related to the same actress. If one had a mummy, the mummy should be put up with artifacts from the same culture or tribe. Nowadays, it was all about giving context to items, about showing one’s personal interest and profound appreciation for the humanity reflected in a collection of human remains. A treasure without a story was hardly better than a paperweight, bland and easily forgotten. Items whose appeal rested solely in their beauty or extreme nature without a hint of culture behind them were tactfully being tucked away into storage vaults, or else sold off to make room for a more fashionable collection worth displaying.

Dr. Teluz didn't participate in the more social side of the flesh collecting community in Baleno City. His own collection was small and carefully curated according to the interests of no-one but himself. There was only one item he was after in today’s auction. He’d chucked and called it “painfully trendy” before explaining that only a decade earlier, it’d have hardly been considered a true flesh collector’s item at all. Once Zepile pulled himself together and acclimated to navigating the strange, moving darkness of the saleroom, he headed straight for the item. 

Hanging at full length in its glass case, the meticulously maintained vintage surgeon’s robe was impossible to miss. Zepile locked his eyes on it like a guiding star, not daring to look away, since he'd seen enough in the Hunter Association vaults and in the auction catalogue to know he didn't want to even glimpse what else could be on display in the saleroom. The fabric of the robes had frayed in parts and faded, but one couldn’t miss the distinctive brown stain that pooled at the knees and then dripped down to the hem. The woman who’d worn it a hundred years ago had cradled the body of her son, a mad priest from Leventu, whose throat she’d slit to save him from a much more gruesome public execution. Being a history buff, this robe was Dr. Teluz’s most sought after item, and he’d put limits on how much Zepile could spend on everything else in order to acquire this piece above all else.

Such an on-trend choice was a relief to Zepile, since rusty bloodstains on fabric weren’t in themselves horrifying. Around the room, the other items Zepile strived to never look at too closely promised to be far more gruesome and distinctly human. In spite of the greater trend for more culturally significant items among more fashionable flesh collectors, the historical importance of Dr. Teluz’s favorite item would’ve made it much more valuable in an auction of similarly historical items. As Dr. Teluz had said, a stained robe hardly qualified as a fully-fledged flesh collectable in the eyes of more traditional flesh collectors, but legally it had to be sold as such due to the notable quantity of dried, unwashed blood and, perhaps even more than the blood, the macabre story that accompanied it.

After inspecting the piece as well as he could behind its display, Zepile was satisfied with its authenticity and decided to leave without lingering a second longer. He felt ill and disoriented as he stepped out of the saleroom and back out into the main hall. His field of vision, which had been severely restricted in the unnatural darkness, expanded and flickered back to normal in an instant. Someone grabbed him by the elbow and assured him he’d be all right in a second, that the dim light had that effect on people when they stepped out of it. Thinking about just how hard--no, _impossible_ \--it'd been to make out anyone else in the saleroom, Zepile began to suspect it couldn't just be an effect of the low light. Calmly, he thanked the person holding his elbow, realizing they must be an employee situated at the door for the exact purpose of helping bidders regain her footing after they stepped out of the saleroom. The employee wished him a good day and good luck before retaking their post beside the door. Zepile headed back to the main saleroom to wait for the antiques auction to begin.

“Although the slides, boxes, and additional lenses are all authentic, the body of the microscope itself is listed as a reproduction. But…it looks so old. Do you think they paint it to look that way?”

“C'mon. That can't be it. How are you supposed to paint age onto metal? Paint would flake off too easily.”

"That's a good point, but then, how did they get it to look so convincing?"

Curious, Zepile stopped to eavesdrop on the conversation being muttered between two strangers, a man and a woman, just behind him as they studied a lot with a standing microscope and slides, making their own personal guesses as to how the telescope could look so old when it’d only been commissioned and added to the set four years prior.

"I don't know what they did, but they can't have just painted it."

“Maybe they buried it or covered it in dirt?”

“You could clean dirt off, though. But, maybe that might stain it. At least it'd rough it up a bit.”

Zepile took a good look at the set of medical memorabilia the pair was debating. The old-fashion compound microscope tying the collection together had been expertly antiqued to match the age of the actual antiques surrounding it. With a smile, he leaned in to interrupt the list of increasingly ridiculous aging methods the two were busily coming up with and shooting down in turns.

“It’s brass. You could treat it and bake it in an oven,” suggested Zepile. The pair looked over to him, surprised, but interested.

“What? Really?” asked the man, eagerly engaging Zepile in conversation while the woman took a step back.

“There are plenty of methods you can use to make an item seem older, techniques that add certain levels of tarnish or a patina,” said Zepile. He indicated the microscope on the table with a casual wave. “Chemical methods last longest. But, sometimes you really can just paint it on, though that’s not so permanent.”

“Are there special formulas involved?” asked the man, intrigued. “Proprietary blends?”

“For what?” asked Zepile.

“The chemicals.”

“Oh,” said Zepile. “No. Chemicals are chemicals. You just buy them anywhere really.”

“And it’s _legal_?”

Zepile hesitated and looked at the woman now standing a little ways behind the man. She shrugged at him when she caught his eye and didn’t speak up, pulling herself as far from the conversation as she could while staying at her companion's side.

“Why wouldn’t it be legal?” Zepile asked the man. “When it’s done honestly and on purpose, it’s simply referred to as distressing or antiquing a piece. It’s an aesthetic choice more than anything. Some people like that look for crafts or home decoration.”

“But you could deceive someone doing that.”

Zepile nodded, but tried to sound more reassuring. “Antiquing methods can be, and have been, used to make reproductions appear more similar to the real deal. And, sometimes, that might then lead to the reproductions being sold as authentic antiques by less scrupulous vendors, especially when selling to naive or unsuspecting first-time buyers. But, you should be relieved that in this case here, with the microscope, it’s been clearly labeled. The seller is being transparent about the item’s true age.”

“It is,” said the man, rubbing a hand over his chin thoughtfully. “And the microscope does complete the set. Tell me, how much would you pay for this sort of thing?”

“Not over ten thousand jenny, preferably lower than that. Personally, I wouldn’t buy it though. There's nothing wrong with it or anything. It's just not what I'm looking for.”

“Not your style?”

“No, not really.”

“What’s your favorite piece here, then?”

“Excuse me?”

“What are you hoping to buy?”

“Oh. Nothing for myself.”

“I see,” said the man, his interested expression falling somewhat at the realization. “Are you a dealer? Do you have a shop?”

“I’m an antiques trader in town for business. I buy, and then I sell, but I don’t have a shop.”

“You’re only attending for business?”

“Yes.”

“Such a shame,” said the man, disappointed but still with plenty of good humor left. “I was hoping you might really enjoy these sorts of collectables. It’s interesting to meet someone so knowledgeable. I thought it might be a personal interest of yours.”

“Being good at my job is a personal interest of mine, if that's any consolation.”

The man laughed and reached out to slap Zepile on the back, his look of disappointment gone. Though he'd started the conversation himself to pass the time, Zepile found it a relief to have had a chance to speak to someone refreshingly friendly after weeks of haggling with cheap shopkeepers and dodging futile arguments with Mizaistom. They introduced themselves by first name, the man Fulmineo and his sister Fiammata. Zepile wished them luck in the auction, and they parted ways.

Though a familiar experience for Zepile, the first auction of the day dragged as he waited through long, unbroken stretches of bidding for Dr. Teluz’s items to come up. In the end, he’d decided against buying anything for himself. He didn’t have a strong enough background in medical instruments or the regional furniture styles that comprised the bulk of the merchandise, and his initial interest in the cufflinks and prints had waned as he’d wandered the aisles. Frankly, much of his enthusiasm for the day's offers had died after entering the flesh collector's saleroom. The primary art and antique auction became little more than a test of his patience and ability to pay attention to passing lots when his mind was so thoroughly split. All he could really think about was what would come next and how much he didn't want to experience the strange, clinging darkness all over again. After the various items he was following for Dr. Teluz had ended, he moved out of the crowded saleroom and into the hall to breath. He needed time alone to mentally prepare himself for his next trial and try to relax. Without retying his scarf or slipping on his gloves, he stepped outside and was soon pacing the block with a cigarette, hardly taking note of the sudden cold that had come in ahead of a rainstorm forecasted for later in the afternoon.

Zepile was surprised to hear someone calling him over by name as he stepped back inside the auction hall. He looked, and there were the siblings, Fulmineo and Fiammata. Fulmineo was waving Zepile over while his sister stood still with her arms crossed and hip cocked to the side impatiently. Moderately intrigued though intimidated by Fiammata's apparent distrust of him, Zepile hurried over to join them.

“My sister and I have a question for you about distinguishing certain imitations from fakes, if you know anything about that as a professional and all.”

“I’ll see if I can help. I’m not good with everything, though, especially not anything from this country. But, I can give general advice.”

“That’s alright. It’s an object from overseas. It’s called a netsuke. It’s sort of like a button, but larger. Kind of like this.” Fulmineo held up his hands, using a thumb and forefinger to indicate something small enough to fit in the opposite palm. “Do you know it?”

“I’ve seen them,” said Zepile. “They’re often made of ivory, right?”

“Often, yes. Ours, however, isn’t.”

“That’s reasonable. There’s other materials, of course. Ivory is the most commonly imitated. I can’t promise I’ll know a lot about imitations of all other possible materials used to make them.”

“Well...” said Fulmineo, looking at his sister. She shook her head. “Ah, well. It’s sort of like ivory, though.”

“Sort of? Like…tagua nut?”

“Not quite. But here, have a look. I’ve got some photos,” said Fulmineo, reaching deep into his coat pocket to pull out his phone. Zepile recognized the model, the newest of the beetle line that was less beetle and more rectangular, only released a week before. Its condition was pristine despite the phone having no case or any sort of protection to speak of. He assumed, along with the way the siblings dressed, that Fulmineo was the sort of person who could afford to replace such an expensive item at a moment’s notice if it broke.

“We aren’t sure if the netsuke’s authentic,” explained Fulmineo as he moved next to Zepile to hold the phone for him. “It might be plastic or something. I heard from a friend that that’s a risk with netsuke nowadays, and I didn’t really know all that when I bought it, so, now I’m getting a bit anxious.”

“And it’s definitely not ivory?” asked Zepile, zooming in on the photo after having silently requested for Fulmineo to simply hand him the phone so he could have a look on his own.

“No. It’s very similar, though. Or, it should be.”

“Is it bone?”

Fulmineo hesitated long enough for Zepile to notice and look over.

“Yes,” said Fulmineo. “It’s a sort of bone.”

Considering the items for sale in the second auction he’d be attending later that afternoon, Zepile wasn’t too keen on verifying precisely what sort of bone the netsuke might be.

“Huh,” he said after a thoughtful pause. “Maybe a blacklight will work for your first test, then, if you’re mostly just concerned it’s plastic.”

“How?” asked Fulmineo, leaning in eagerly. Zepile unconsciously leaned a little further back.

“If it turns blue, it’s a plastic or resin. Virtually all of those turn blue. Or well, they fluoresce blue.”

“Is that true?”

“Yes. Also, if it’s carved bone, you can already check for pores on the surface, as well as a bit of discoloration. That would distinguish it from ivory, since an ivory piece wouldn’t show signs of the haversian system on its surface. Unfortunately, you'll need better magnification than this to see the pores, so, I can’t tell just by looking at the photographs myself.”

“I believe I know what you’re referring to,” said Fulmineo, snapping his fingers in sudden excitement. “I have some old playing tiles made of bone. They have dark pits and lines on them from age. Is that it?”

“Exactly,” said Zepile. He handed the phone back over. “That’s a really obvious sign to distinguish bone from ivory.”

Fiammata still hadn’t said a word, but she watched Zepile with gradually increasing interest as he spoke to her brother. The steadiness of her gaze made Zepile uneasy, though he couldn’t say why. He wanted to escape, but couldn't. Fulmineo was still speaking to him, asking him questions about how to identify imitation ivory, and then, going back to their very first conversation, about how to distinguish antique scientific instruments from reproductions when they weren’t labeled as such. Zepile was friendly and free with his advice, and would’ve appreciated the conversation as an easy way to pass the time if only Fiammata would relax or say something. He felt her scrutiny like a weight pressing into him the entire time, her eerie silence doing nothing to mask her presence just over Fulmineo's shoulder.

Zepile excused himself after checking his watch. He told himself it'd be better get an early start on heading over to the flesh collectors’ auction, secretly impressed that Fiamata's gaze was enough to drive him into the Nen-infused darkness rather than endure it a moment longer. Fulmineo wished him a warm farewell, saying he and his sister had business as well. Then, after a few quick waves and nods, the three turned to go.

Except…it was soon obvious that all three were heading in the exact same direction. Zepile wondered if he should say something, as every step he took towards the next saleroom grew more obvious and awkward. To his surprise, it was Fiammata who spoke up at last.

“You’re attending the flesh collectors’ auction?” she asked. She appeared without warning at Zepile’s elbow, startling him. Zepile noted the faint trace of a smile at the corner of her mouth. She might as well have been beaming for the absolute transformation it made of her features. For half a second, Zepile didn't even recognize her.

“I’m headed that direction,” said Zepile, unsure why a simple “yes” wouldn’t suffice. Most likely a part of him didn’t want to admit he was attending a flesh collector's auction in any capacity, even as a representative of a paying client.

“You’re a collector?” asked Fulmineo. Zepile was astounded he'd come to this conclusion, but covered with a smile.

“I’m a trader,” Zepile reminded him.

“Do you have a shop?”

“He already said he doesn’t have a shop,” interrupted Fiammata from Zepile’s other side. “He already told you he’s a trader, too, though he said it was antiques.”

“Yes, but one should always double check. People don't always admit they collect trinkets and antiques made of human beings right away,” said Fulmineo back to Fiammata with stubborn insistence. Zepile was concerned about getting caught in a quarrel between them and walked a little faster, so that the siblings on either side of him could rejoin in his wake. He reached the door to the saleroom several steps before them and presented his invitation with a quick wave. He could hear the siblings arguing under their breaths behind him up until the moment he passed through the door. In that instant, all clearly distinguishable sound, along with each and every face around him, became impossible to decipher.

Zepile fixed his eyes on the bloodstained robe and once again made directly for it, but the crowd was denser now than during his first visit, and he was forced to look around to cut his way through without jostling anyone, or worse, any of the items. Naturally, very little of what was on sale could compete with the horrors he’d carelessly run across alone in the Hunter Association vaults, but the collection was by no means tame. The owner had been a medical doctor, unlike Dr. Teluz who merely held a doctorate degree, and his proclivity for pieces of medical significance was reflected in the finely preserved nature of several human and disease specimens in long rows of jars and cases. Zepile found it ironic that one could see all of the dead for sale clearly, while everyone alive and buying were able to preserve their privacy through what he supposed had to be some sort of disguising Nen ability manipulating all of their minds.

Zepile flinched at the thought as if it'd hit him. He immediately tried to think of anything but Nen and failed. He thought of Mizaistom and felt an unasked for and unnecessary surge of guilt. Then, he thought of Mizaistom having perhaps killed a whole other human being before with his Nen, though he didn’t know if Mizaistom ever had. It just seemed like a natural thing to have done considering how dangerous Nen-users were. He wondered what Leorio had experience of that life so far. He wished he could think of anything else. In desperation, he looked around the room and wished he could literally _be_ anywhere else. The only relief was that, thankfully, no-one passing by him could see the look of distress on his face giving him away as someone who obviously didn't belong there.

The auction began after a surge of more people filtered into the saleroom. Though narrow, the space never grew tight or crowded, unlike the packed main saleroom Zepile had bid in earlier. This group of bidders had been specially selected and were mostly anonymous. He doubted whether Fulmineo and Fiammata had even given him their real names before, knowing they'd be bidding in the flesh collector’s auction later that day. And yet, beyond the strange, artificially induced tunnel vision that Zepile never quite got over, the auction itself went normally. He waited as lots passed, for his own sake paying more attention to their numbers than their names or short descriptions, counting along as the robes grew nearer. He had plenty of money left over, which gave him the freedom to bid high when his lot finally came up. He didn't need to. Only two other people bid against him, but not aggressively enough to up the price astronomically. The item was being sold in the wrong market to begin with, and the bidders' general lack of interest only highlighted that. Zepile kept his identification number high for the auctioneer to record, and then, with no further excuse or desire to stick around, he made his way to the door. This time, he'd mentally prepared himself for the sudden change in his hearing and visual acuity as he stepped out into the light, and he was proud of his success when no employee’s hands shot out to steady him. He still had to stop and wait a moment for his eyes to adjust. Once they had, the first thing he did was go back outside into the cold to smoke beneath an overhang, out of the rain.

“Zepile! What a relief we’ve found you!”

Zepile recognized Fulmineo by the skip in his step as he came up behind him in the hall. The auctions had ended, and it was time for Zepile to collect his won items. As he turned to greet Fulmineo, he noted that his usual companion, Fiammata, was suspiciously absent. Zepile had no intention of asking after her, but wondered where she’d disappeared to, as he’d come to expect the two sibling to be together always.

“I’m sorry you had to look for me,” said Zepile, stopping and then stepping backwards a little as Fulmineo jogged to catch up to him. “What do you need?”

“Well,” said Fulmineo, wasting no time, “my sister and I were talking about how impressed we were with you, and were wondering if you’d like to come by our house and have a look at our collections. Plus, it might not interest you since it’s not antiques or anything, but I’m itching to show off my garden downstairs. It’s thriving, and it’s practically December now. I’m proud of it. Also, we can bring out the netsuke and you can have a look at it in person, help us make the final assessment.”

Zepile shrugged as he considered the invitation, unsure if he should accept too quickly. He’d guessed by now that Fulmineo and Fiammata were flesh collectors, which could make them a good lead. So far, they hadn’t seemed as dangerous or threatening as Dr. Teluz had been on their first meeting, but then again, Zepile supposed that with Nen you could never really know for sure. The circumstances under which they'd all met had been entirely different.

“I need to pay and deliver my purchases,” said Zepile. “It’s getting a bit late in the day, and there's rain. Maybe I can give you my email or my cell, and you can contact me later?”

“Or better, you can ring me when you’re finished,” said Fulmineo. “It’s great if you can come late in the evening, if you don’t mind a bit of company. We’re having some friends over. Some fellow collectors. You know the sort of crowd, I guess, since you’re a dealer. Anyway, I’ll take your number, if you want. How do you spell ‘Zepile’? With an ‘s’ or...?”

Zepile gave his name using a common alternate spelling, imagining it might protect him from name-stealing Nen...if there were such a thing. He’d read too many comics about using people’s names to control them, and if he’d read those comics as a kid, then it was possible a Nen-user knew them, too, and might’ve been inspired.

“Excellent,” said Fulmineo. He messaged Zepile back his own contact information soon after. “My full name is Fulmineo Bagliore. I’m easy to find. My whole family’s easy to find. We have a big house on a hill. If you come around, you can’t miss it.”

“I’ll see what my evening’s looking like,” said Zepile. He pocketed his phone and nodded farewell. “See you, I guess. Perhaps.”

“See you,” echoed Fulmineo cheerily. He repeated, as if unbelievably relieved by the fact still, “I’m so glad we found you. I hope you can make it.” Then, with a wave, he strode off triumphantly into the crowd, and Zepile continued on to pay for his items.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The Bagliore house was indeed impossible to miss. When Zepile had told the cab driver the address, the man had laughed at him and told him he was funny. After Zepile insisted, the man stopped smiling. He reassessed him warily while Zepile sighed and sat back, not saying another word for the rest of the twenty-minute ride until it was time to pay his fare.

“You’re here!” announced Fulmineo at the sight of Zepile in the entry hall of the veritable castle he and his sister called home. Fulmineo hadn’t been wrong about how easy the place would be to find. The Bagliore family was one of the richest in town, part of the Baleno City elite with members in every level of government and commerce. Their connection to the mafia through an uncle was an open secret the entire country of Relumbria was in on. Meanwhile, Fulmineo and Fiammata’s first cousin was married to the Relumbrian president, and their older brother served as an ambassador to the Kakin Empire.

“I’m here,” repeated Zepile back to Fulmineo in a much weaker voice, having long been rendered speechless by the situation he’d stumbled into. He’d called Mizaistom, who was still in the city, to tell him he’d be out that evening. At first, Zepile had made it a joke about having a social life, since he doubted Mizaistom enjoyed much of one himself. However, Zepile hadn’t done his research yet, and when he’d mentioned the Bagliore siblings, Miziastom had dropped his phone and needed to call him back from the landline at his desk because he’d shattered the screen, and it wouldn’t turn on anymore.

It’d been Mizaistom, in the end, who’d broken the news about who exactly the Bagliores were. Zepile, struck dumb at the realization, had promptly run out of anything to brag about and humbly taken as much advice from Mizaistom as he could on how to proceed.

“I can’t wait to show you around, but first I have to play host and introduce you to everyone,” said Fulmineo. Someone appeared behind Zepile to take his coat, and Zepile shrugged it off in a slight daze. “I assume you found your way here easily enough?” 

Fulmineo chuckled at Zepile’s exaggerated nod. Zepile, meanwhile, hoped he was somehow pulling off looking as natural as could be expected in the most unnatural of circumstances.

“You didn’t know who we were, did you?” asked Fulmineo, catching Zepile off guard as he lead him out of the entry hall. Zepile sucked in a breath and nodded again, admitting it was true.

“I make my living appraising antiques,” said Zepile. “It’s a lot harder to appraise human beings.” Internally, he had no idea what he was going on about even as the words left his mouth, but if he had to guess, it seemed he’d fallen back on reciting old, familiar platitudes in hopes that it might give off an impression of worldliness and erudition when he was lacking both.

“That’s true,” agreed Fulmineo. He gave Zepile a hearty pat on the back. “Now, we’ll introduce you to everyone else. I even told Fiammata to wait for you before we show off the garden. You hadn’t even called yet, but I knew you’d come out. I could tell you were interested. That netsuke has you curious, doesn’t it?”

Zepile smiled and nodded some more without speaking, acknowledging that the netsuke was a much better excuse than his real reason for accepting Fulmineo’s invitation. Fortunately, there wasn’t much time for Zepile's silence to become awkward as they entered into a small parlor where a group of ten or fifteen people were assembled. In their midst, beaming grandly, was Fiammata. 

Everything about Fiammata was transformed from that afternoon at the auction. She hurried over to meet Zepile and Fulmineo at the door, introducing him to everyone as an expert trader in antiques and detecting forgeries who they’d met that afternoon. She implied he shared the mutual interest of all those in the room, flesh collecting, by revealing that he’d recently sourced a full set of rare histology slides for a friend of hers. “From Hesas!” she’d added with emphasis, meaning they’d been all human, the genuine article, and therefore exciting.

“I’m sort of new to this,” admitted Zepile once he was given the floor. Vague honesty was the best kind of lie. “I hope Baleno City treats me well while I’m here.”

Fulmineo laughed at this and declared that Baleno City had done so already, because Zepile was in the Bagliore house. He then invited everyone to join him to see the garden, which would be the evening’s main event. Fiammata and Fulmineo led the way, conversing happily between three languages while Zepile fell into a small group of stragglers towards the back. They asked him politely about how long he’d been in town and if he’d be staying for much time. Zepile offered short answers and then made small talk about his overall impressions of the city and the rainy weather that afternoon.

“Here it is,” said Fulmineo loudly to the rest of the group behind him as they trickled through the glittering glass doorway that led into the greenhouse conservatory. The artificial flames of the flickering lamps at the entrance made the panes on the walls look wet, like slowly melting blocks of glass set into a metal frame. Outside was dark, night having already fallen well before Zepile had called to accept Fulmineo’s invitation.

“The pH level of the soil had to be adjusted first, since anything higher than a pH of seven renders it useless. It’s not a miracle treatment or anything, since it lacks nitrogen, but the high phosphorous quantity is essential for larger, more plentiful flowers, particularly in the case of the roses. Of course, my roses have always bloomed out of season, practically whenever they feel like it, but I don’t mind, because that means you all get to see a couple of the Bone Roses right now, almost in winter. I think I’d like to convince at least a few of these rose bushes to bloom primarily in winter, but I haven’t got the know-how yet to figure out how that’s done. I’ve been speaking to experts, and they say….”

Zepile was slow to catch up as the main body of the group pressed on ahead with notably greater excitement than his own at the mention of roses in bloom. He soon fell out of earshot of most of what the Bagliore siblings were saying, but preferred it that way. He made sure to keep the group just in sight as he followed reluctantly after, though they were impossible to lose in the clear, straight pathways of the expansive greenhouse. He supposed if they left through some other door, he’d lose them, but in that case, he’d flag down a member of the household staff to bring him back. It was an acceptable compromise as far as Zepile cared. He’d heard human bones being mentioned quite a few times already, and was confident he didn’t need to know in any special detail how they might pertain to gardening.

It was apparent after about a minute that Zepile wasn’t the only straggler on the verge of losing the group completely. As he idly studied the plants and various decorative features of the indoor garden at his leisure, he came across another man dressed in long robes like a gown, his hands partially hidden within long sleeves and clasped over his chest as though he were keeping them warm. Something about his expression and stiff posture gave off an anticipatory feeling Zepile didn’t like. Zepile knew, without asking or acknowledging the fact, that the man had been waiting for him this entire time. When Zepile caught his eye, the stranger nodded to him briefly in greeting.

“Good evening,” said Zepile. Although outside was pitch black, they were still within the evening time frame. The man repeated the words back to Zepile in a softer voice and strolled fast enough to keep pace with Zepile as Zepile drew close enough to pass him.

“It's Zepile, correct? You’re the new buyer who works for Dr. Teluz.”

This was a statement of fact and not a question Zepile was at liberty to deny. The mention of Dr. Teluz already made him nervous, because it carried along with it his fear of a Nen attack, putting him on he guard against something he could never hope to defend himself against.

“I could tell you were the same,” said the man quietly in a voice only Zepile had any chance of hearing. Zepile clasped his wrist behind his back and leant forward slightly so as not to miss a word. “I made the final connection just now when Fiammata Bagliore confirmed you’d sold the histology slides from Hesas. She recognized your name from something she’d heard about that earlier in the week. She was excited to realize you were one and the same, and she's happy you accepted the invitation to visit. I’m please you came, as well, because I’ve also been trying to match a face to the rumors _I’ve_ been hearing these past few weeks.”

“Huh. Rumors already,” said Zepile. His hand was itching for a cigarette, but he knew that sort of thing was frowned upon in greenhouses because it poisoned the plants. “I’ve only been here three weeks,” he went on with a false show of thoughtfulness, “and there’s already rumors about me.”

“Of course there’s rumors when someone’s telling people he has a lead on a trove of Scarlet Eyes.”

The moment he’d caught up to the man waiting for him, Zepile had known the conversation would go in this direction. He was lucky he didn’t have a face that gave away his true feelings too quickly when he didn't want it to. All the same, his chest tightened with apprehension.

“Are you a friend of the Bagliore siblings?” asked Zepile.

“Not quite. I work for them. I’m a security officer.”

“Ah, I thought you were a guest,” said Zepile before lapsing into silence. Reticence was a natural response to discovering that you were conversing with the equivalent of a powerful family’s private police. Surely such a high-ranking family could hire Nen-users. He found himself speculating what exactly the nature of the rumors about him had been, and hoped that Fiammata’s positive change in regard for him indicated it hadn’t been all bad.

“In this instance, I am a guest,” said the man. He attempted a small smile, but gave up when Zepile made no sign of it having put him at ease. “I no longer manage the Bagliore’s security myself. Today I’m here as a fellow enthusiast eager to see Fulmineo’s great experiment with bone meal to grow his roses. It’s a hobby right now, but he’s hoping to develop a commercial product in a few years if he can bring the flowers up to a market standards. Bone white roses fertilized with human bone meal. It could be a profitable gimmick.”

“Huh,” said Zepile. The man beside him continued speaking on his own, knowing Zepile would have nothing more pertinent to add.

“Did you know Fiammata Bagliore is a friend of Neon Nostrade?” asked the man. Zepile didn’t make any sign that he was familiar with the Nostrade name. “There’s a considerable age gap between them, but they’re united by a common interest. You may know a little over a year ago the Nostrade family famously acquired a set of Scarlet Eyes that was, almost even more famously, stolen from them a day later. Since then, Fiammata Bagliore has dreamed of possessing her own set, but in the current market, that’s proven to be quite difficult.”

“I see,” said Zepile. “Tell her to speak to me about the price. My information isn’t free.”

“Money’s no object for her,” said the man. “She’ll pay. I just want to be sure the information is worth buying. Who and what are your sources?”

“I can’t tell you my sources. It’s sensitive.”

“If you want to sell her the Dark Web video of the collection with the mysterious owner, I regret to inform you she’s already seen it.”

“It’s more than that.”

“How much more?”

“A bit.”

The look on the man’s face turned venomous, and a spasm of dread shot through Zepile, as if some threatening force had crashed into him, enveloping him almost tangibly in an acute fear for his life and the desire, but not the power, to flee. He stopped. He took several quick steps back without looking, never taking his eyes off the man who had also stopped and was now pivoting slowly in place to keep Zepile in his sights.

“Who has the eyes?” asked the man with menacing softness. Zepile realized in a jolt of awareness that he could no longer hear Fulmineo’s boisterous, boastful voice ringing out in the distance.

“I have no idea who has them,” said Zepile. He couldn’t think of anything to say but the truth, and the truth was that he really didn’t know. “I’m being honest. They wouldn’t tell me that. I’m just…a go-between. A facilitator. A bridge.”

“Who’s items are you selling? What’s the collector’s name?”

“I’m selling for a lot of people,” said Zepile. “The book for Dr. Teluz was from a man named Greldem in York Shin. I have human vellum on its way from someone who goes by Zelia, also in York Shin. A lot of my clients are from York Shin….”

“But who’s the _collector_ you’re selling for?” insisted the man impatiently. “The one who’s getting married or whatever story you’re spreading around? I haven’t found anyone fitting that description, and your items are from all over the world, unknown to have been held in any single collection ever before. Why are you lying about your sources?”

“It’s a reasonable precaution,” said Zepile. He was shocked how fast this excuse came to him under duress. “People don’t want to be associated with this market. That’s all.”

Surprisingly, the man accepted this, though he seemed to wish he didn’t have to. He unclasped his hands and held one up in invitation.

“And how do you contact this person you work for?” he asked Zepile. “Phone? Email? Give me that, and I’ll find them myself. I won’t even implicate you. You’ll be saving me time by telling me, though if I’m forced to find out on my own, I’ll also do that.”

The intense feeling of dread wrapped itself tighter around Zepile on cue, and this time Zepile couldn't summon the strength to even step back. He certainly couldn't give the man Mizaistom’s number, and it was for the man’s own good as well as his own that he didn’t. Maybe this person could intimidate Zepile with his malicious Nen powers, but Mizaistom was a Two-star Hunter accustomed to dealing with criminals. The man in front of him wouldn’t have stood a chance. Still, his interference might be enough compromise the mission. In the worse case, Zepile might even get killed. He was under no illusion that Nen-users were reasonable or fair. One would just as easily kill him as they would another Nen-user who actually stood a chance.

For a moment, Zepile was plunged into despair as the worse case scenario, his own unfair demise, played out in his mind. Nothing could stop Nen-users from doing whatever they wanted. The only way to fight Nen was with Nen, and Zepile could only use Nen by accident while forging antiques. He wasn’t trained like Leorio or Mizaistom. He wasn’t a Hunter.

Zepile, however, knew Hunters. In fact, knew quite a few Hunters, considering he was just a simple antiques trader and good Samaritan who liked to attend the York Shin Auctions every September. Inspired and emboldened by the realization as it dawned on him, Zepile took a deep breath and finally answered.

“It's the Hunter Association.”

The man in front of Zepile blanched, and the cloyingly inviting hand fell to his side.

“If it were the Hunter Association itself, they’d have sent a Hunter, not you,” said the man sharply, though the doubt was already clear on his face. “Who’s the Hunter you work for? The Hunter Association wouldn’t risk civilians like you so easily. Whoever you work for is probably lying to you.”

Though the man was calling Zepile’s bluff, the malicious air surrounding him thinned. As the knot of dread in Zepile’s gut loosened, he finally dared to attempt a lie.

“I don’t know who it is exactly,” he said. “I don’t know what they want. I just know it’s someone from the Hunter Association who provides me with items to sell.”

“They’ve given you the information on the eyes to sell as well?”

“Supposedly, yes, but I don’t actually have the information myself. Like I said, I’m a facilitator in that regard.”

“Are you're sure it’s a Hunter? You've seen their license?”

Zepile realized at that moment that he’d never seen Mizaistom’s Hunter License. He’d never even seen Gon’s, or Leorio's, for that matter.

“I haven’t,” he said, not even concealing his own look of astonishment as the realization set in. “I’ve actually never seen a Hunter License in my life.”

The man frowned and thought hard. The oppressive force between them vanished the same instant. Zepile, it seemed, was no longer his primary concern. He was preoccupied with concerns over who the potential Hunter or other Nen-using mastermind behind Zepile, pulling the strings, could be. The added difficulty this new element introduced into the case had clearly left him a little daunted. He looked over at Zepile, as though sizing him up, and then shook his head. This look was familiar to Zepile. It was the same one Mizaistom had given him when he’d discovered Zepile had used Nen in the past to make his “artwork”.

“Why would someone useless like you…” the man began, but was interrupted by the voice of Fiammata calling out for Zepile and announcing that they were going to bring out the netsuke soon for him to have a look. Zepile replied before the man across from him had a chance to try anything. When Fiammata arrived, Zepile made up an excuse about getting into a conversation concerning a nearby plant with broad leaves and a pattern reminiscent of skulls on its surface. He hurried to join her further down the path, leaving the scowling man in the long robes behind.

“What’s that guy’s name?” asked Zepile to Fiammata as he followed her out of the greenhouse to the room where she told him everyone was waiting. She and her brother wanted him to appraise the netsuke for them and their friends like a show. “I’ve been introduced to so many people at once. It’s a bit disorienting. I want to remember who’s who, since we’ll probably be running into each other again while I’m in town, right? Flesh collecting’s a niche market.”

“Oh, that’s Linsen,” said Fiammata. There was an eager look in her eyes as she added, “You’ll most certainly be seeing him around.”

Zepile recalled Fiammata’s wish to own a pair of Scarlet Eyes and felt he now finally understood the source of her newfound enthusiasm for getting to know him. He smiled back when she looked over at him, while in the back of his mind he tried to recite Mizaistom’s phone number from memory. His phone, which he’d left in his coat pocket after he'd arrived, might not get back to him if Linsen had taken an interest in it. On the bright side, at least Mizaistom’s identity wouldn't have been compromised, even if Linsen had got access to Zepile’s phone contacts. He failed to fight back a self-satisfied grin as he remembered he’d saved Mizaistom in his contacts under the name “Ugh”. The grin flickered away an instant later as he realized "Ugh" was the only other contact on that phone he ever communicated with who wasn't a known antiques dealer or Dr. Teluz.

“I need to make a call,” said Zepile. “Right away, sorry. I haven’t got my phone on me.”

“Oh,” said Fiammata. She wasn't as good at hiding her annoyance as her brother would’ve been. “Certainly.”

A few minutes later, Zepile was reunited with his coat and the phone in its pocket. He sighed as he dialed in a number from memory, not Mizaistom’s this time, but rather, Leorio’s. Amazingly, though it was a strange time to be calling up where Leorio lived, he answered the phone after only two rings.

“Who is this?” asked Leorio. He didn't sound annoyed at all, despite the strange timing and the fact that he didn't know the number calling him.

“It’s Zepile,” said Zepile, rushing to explain before Leorio could ask any questions. “I want to know, just in case there’s some secure Hunter way you can contact our mutual friend for me. Just tell him I’m an idiot and our phones are probably compromised. He’ll understand. If he’s surprised, it’s only going to be that I’ve taken this long to screw something up.”

“What did you screw up?”

“I haven’t got time to explain it. I’m working. Just tell him as soon as you can.”

“I’m sending the message now. But, seriously, what did you do?”

“I’ve got to go. Gotta go appraise something.”

“Zepile, wait, what if he asks m—”

Zepile hung up on Leorio and then turned his phone off. He’d probably have to get rid of it later, once the party was over. He knew a few ways, but he didn’t know if Mizaistom might need his phone for unknowable investigative purposes. Maybe it was bugged with Nen and there was a way to reverse engineer that to track the tracker back. Or, maybe Nen-users left residual marks of Nen on everything they touched, and Mizaistom had a Nen trick that could be used to track them down like a bloodhound? Zepile had no earthly idea. With Nen, the possibilities were endless. He put the phone back into his coat pocket and told Fiammata when he caught up to her that the battery had died, so it’d been a waste to get his phone back anyway. She recited a few words of polite sympathy for him and then, much more eagerly, swept him back into another parlor style room to rejoin the rest of the party. The netsuke, she said, was awaiting his judgement.


	13. Nen

In the end, Zepile brought his work phone home with him, though he’d kept it off the rest of the night. He thought about throwing it into a river on the way back to his hotel, but there weren’t any rivers deep enough in Baleno City worth going out of his way for. He had no surefire way of knowing if he was being tracked anyway, nor was there much he could do about it if he were. His only choice was to go home as expected. If Linsen already knew about his work with the local shop owner and Dr. Teluz, figuring out where Zepile was living probably hadn’t been difficult, either.

The first thing Zepile did was take a long shower. He’d never been one to relax or ruminate while showering, but he needed something to do to help wind down. To that end, the shower was a dismal failure. He could barely stand to keep the curtain drawn, since he couldn’t shake the feeling that once he pulled it back, there’d be someone or something waiting for him on the other side. If anything, the sensory deprivation of the water thundering over his head only put him more on edge. When he was finished, he threw on a towel and checked every closet and hidden space large enough for a person to conceal themselves in the room. He was perfectly aware there was no logical reason to be so thorough, that so much searching hardly made him any safer. All he was going to achieve if he found an intruder was die sooner, because, wrapped in his bath towel for modesty and carrying a small, ceramic cow as his only weapon, there wasn’t very much he’d have been able to do to defend himself for more than a few frantic and embarrassing seconds.

After he’d finished clearing the room, Zepile dragged himself over to the bed to sit and rest. He brought his cigarettes and ashtray over, but was disappointed to see there was only one beer left in the refrigerator. He didn’t know how he was supposed to cope with just one. With a heavy sigh, he took his personal phone out from a drawer and checked it while fumbling to light his first cigarette. 

Leorio had called him thirty times, ten of which had been in the past hour. Zepile hadn’t noticed because he always put his personal phone on silent before heading out. As he scrolled through the missed calls to see if anyone else had tried to reach him besides Leorio, another call came in, interrupting him. Zepile took a deep breath followed by a long draw of his cigarette. Then, he pressed to answer before the call went to voicemail.

“Uh, hello?” he said.

“Did you just get in?” asked Leorio. His voice sounded anxious but not angry. Since he’d listened to Leorio complain about Kurapika so much, Zepile had somehow been expecting Leorio to berate him more for not answering sooner. Then again, this wasn’t the same situation. Leorio hadn’t had any way of knowing when Zepile would be home. He’d been calling non-stop to try to catch him the moment he was safe and free to talk, not to yell at him for having hung up and disappeared.

“Zepile?” asked Leorio. Zepile had started smoking again instead of answering him right away. “Are you okay?”

“I pretty much just got in,” said Zepile, clearing his throat a little as he spoke and leaning to the side to knock the ash off his cigarette into the ashtray. “What do you want?”

“What do you mean what do I want?” asked Leorio. “You hung up on me after telling me there was trouble, and I’ve been worried something’s happened to you ever since.”

Leorio wasn't exaggerating. The tremendous relief in his voice when Zepile had answered the phone reflected his previous, growing dread that something had gone horribly wrong. A twinge of guilt shot through Zepile for having made Leorio feel that way. In the end, he wasn't much better than Kurapika. He was just another careless friend, worrying Leorio and making him call ten times in the past hour, hoping for a response and reassurance that everything was okay.

“I’m sorry about that,” said Zepile. “I, uh, lost track of my work phone in an unsecure place. I don’t think I should use it now, and I wanted to warn Mizaistom.”

“That’s it? That’s all?” asked Leorio. Now, at last, he was letting himself to get annoyed. “That’s what you screwed up? You forgot your phone? Seriously? That’s what you’ve had me worrying about for the past four hours?”

Zepile took another drag of his cigarette while Leorio waited impatiently on the other end. He considered his one beer and sighed as he blew out a stream of smoke. When he was done speaking to Leorio, he’d go buy more. Maybe he'd cancel his morning appointments, too. Now that was a plan.

“I told someone I’m working for a Hunter,” said Zepile. His voice was dull as he detached himself from the words and focused on the feeling of the light, barely-there cigarette between his pinky and ring finger. Leorio made some kind of sound in response, but Zepile wasn’t listening close enough to catch what it was. “I was threatened,” he continued. He watched the burning end of the cigarette with his eyes half closed, thinking back to the suffocating feeling of danger promised by whatever Nen power Linsen had used. “I panicked. That was the only thing I could think to say to get the guy to back off. I sincerely felt like I might…” he decided in the moment that “die” was too strong a word, but every other word he could think of was too shallow of a replacement, “uh…get hurt.”

Leorio was quiet for a long time. Zepile finished his cigarette too fast and lit another. He could hear faint sounds of movement on Leorio’s end. Probably, Leorio was pacing.

“Do you know who you told?” asked Leorio.

“Some guy. A security officer for the Bagliore family.”

“Mizaistom wants to know if you have the guy’s name.”

Zepile lowered his cigarette and looked out into the empty hotel room, a brow raised incredulously to no-one. “You’re talking to Mizaistom?” he asked, not thrilled at the prospect.

“Of course I am,” said Leorio. At last Zepile could make out the specific sound of typing in the background. “He keeps asking me if I’ve heard from you yet. He’s really persistent. He was going to find you himself if you didn’t get back to me before 3am. He’s in Baleno City, you know.”

Zepile groaned, pressing his forehead into the back of his hand tiredly. “Seriously?” he asked. He didn’t want to imagine how much worse it would’ve been for him at the Bagliore house if Mizaistom had showed up concerned and crashed the party. “Nevermind,” he said a second later. “I told him where I was going before I left, so he already knew. I already know he’s in town, too. We’ve met up.”

“He’s still asking if you have a name for the security officer who questioned you.”

“Linsen,” said Zepile, speaking up so Leorio wouldn’t miss it. “It’s a guy named Linsen. That’s what Fiammata Bagliore told me.” 

“What did he talk to you about?”

“He was asking me about the Scarlet Eyes. Apparently Fiammata Bagliore wants a set for herself, and he was screening me to see if my lead was legitimate.”

“And…uh, why was he threatening to attack you, I guess? Mizaistom didn’t ask in those words precisely, but I’m not going to waste time on this whole preamble of his. We’ll just get to the point. It’s late over there, and you’re probably tired, right?”

“Sure,” said Zepile. He changed his phone to the other ear to grab his beer. “The guy knew that my cover story about selling items for a friend was fake. He wants to find the person I’m working for.”

“And you told him it was a Hunter.”

“I figured he might be scared enough of a Hunter to think twice about killing me.” Zepile winced as he realized he’d said something too strong he hadn't wanted to think about. “Or just, you know, about messing with me.”

Another long moment of silence passed as Leorio typed away, relaying the news to Mizaistom. Zepile sighed. Every breath seemed to come out a sigh now. He looked around his room, exhausted and bleary-eyed though there was little chance he’d fall asleep once the call ended. He opened the can of beer and thought about the nearest store where he might be able to restock so late.

“Mizaistom wants you to stay in your room if you can. He’ll come by in the morning. Probably around seven. He’s very specific that you try to sleep. Apparently there’s going to be a lot for you guys to go over tomorrow.”

Zepile almost laughed. “How?” he asked.

“What?”

“How am I supposed to sleep? How is Mizaistom going to sleep if he plans to be here in less than five hours? Who the hell does he think he is?” 

“Well….”

“Listen, Leorio,” said Zepile waving his cigarette in the air in front of him as he spoke and leaving flecks of ash behind on the duvet. “I just sat through a balding, middle aged man’s description of why he likes to collect the trophies of serial killers and ponder over what compelled the killers to keep and cherish certain pieces of their victims over others.” 

“That’s weird,” agreed Leorio, admittedly a little confused with the sudden, new direction of the conversation. Zepile imagined he could hear the crease in Leorio’s brow as it furrowed.

“What’s weirder is that everyone else in the room loved it and complimented him on his taste and asked questions about his pet theories and personal favorite items. He told them all about it in exhaustive detail. They asked for more.” 

“Ah, well, you know. Those kinds of people, they like that stuff. Some people just do.”

“I didn’t like it at all. I excused myself three times to smoke by the window, but that just got me pulled into a conversation on infectious diseases. This part might interest you. Apparently there are fifteen separate people in Baleno City who own diseased human flesh collectables so potent that if any of those items were to get lost or break open, half the city would fall ill within six months. Can you believe it? People literally own plagues here. They keep biohazards in their homes and show them off to their friends, and they treat it like a middle school science fair exhibit.”

“That’s incredibly illegal,” said Leorio. “And dangerous.”

“Most of this entire market is incredibly illegal. And also, dangerous.”

Leorio groaned, and Zepile heard a thud like a laptop being shut too carelessly in another room. “Where do you find these people, Zepile?” he asked. Zepile imagined Leorio might be shaking his head.

“I get the impression that the deeper you go into this stuff, these kinds of people are just the norm.”

“Huh.”

“Also, don’t share all that I said now with Mizaistom,” added Zepile, though he suspected Leorio was already done communicating with Mizaistom for the time being. “He probably already knows about all that stuff, and it’s not relevant to anything in our mission. And anyway, he’s a Hunter, so it probably takes a lot more for him to find certain stuff creepy or weird about flesh collectors.”

“I’m a Hunter, too, and I think it sounds creepy and weird enough already.”

“Yeah, but you’re like a new Hunter, right? Mizaistom’s like an expert Hunter.”

“I think he’d still find most flesh collectors creepy and weird, though.”

“Yeah, but he’d know how to deal with it better than I ever could,” muttered Zepile. He was impressed by how little it embarrassed him to admit this to Leorio, though at the same time it’d have been ludicrous to pretend otherwise. “I’m a pretty average guy,” he continued. “This isn’t my world. Someone hands me a piece of what looks like ivory and tells me it’s human bone, and I’m already uncomfortable as hell. I’m already blowing my cover.”

“But your cover isn’t that you’re a flesh collector anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m supposed to act like I hate it.”

“Ah, yeah. That’s true.”

Zepile took a gulp of beer and suppressed a belch threatening to come up right after. So far he’d succeeded in physically wearing his body down between beer and cigarettes, but his mind, though foggy, wasn’t ready to slow down yet. He wasn’t sure why Leorio was still on the line speaking to him. There was no reason to keep him any longer, so Zepile took another long drink and sat up straighter. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed so he could stand after the call ended.

“I’m going to go, Leorio. It’s late, like you said. I’m tired.”

“Yeah, sure, definitely. You should sleep,” said Leorio. He hesitated, then added, “Or well at least try. Only five hours and all.”

Zepile laughed ironically into the phone and nodded. “I will, I will,” he said, forcing his voice to become lighter, more laid-back, like he didn’t already know for a fact he’d get only an hour of sleep tonight at best. “It’s very late. I shouldn’t have any problem now.”

If Leorio knew Zepile was lying, he didn’t call him out on it. He played along and wished Zepile a goodnight, reminding him briefly that Mizaistom would be over in the morning. They ended the call soon after, and the instant the line disconnected Zepile was wide-awake. He stood up and went to check how much money was in his wallet. It’d be a pain to have to find an ATM so late. Then, he contacted the dealer to tell her that he couldn’t make it to the appointments she’d scheduled for him at her shop in the morning. He made sure to name drop the Bagliore siblings in his message so the cancellations would go over without incident. After he’d won over Dr. Teluz in a single meeting, the dealer had increased her confidence in Zepile and his abilities. Once she found out about the Bagliore siblings, she’d probably want to add his name on the lease for the shop and claim him as a full-time partner.

Despite having successfully completed the first step and freed up his schedule, Zepile couldn't motivate himself to get ready to leave the hotel room. Though wide-awake, his energy had run out in only five minutes, and now he was sitting listless on the couch, trying to remember what exactly he was supposed to be doing. Catching sight of the beer on the bedside table reminded him he needed more beer, but he didn’t want to get up, not even to retrieve the one can he needed to finish. The cigarette he'd left behind continued to smolder away in the ashtray, because he hadn’t put it out well enough when he’d stood. Actually, he recalled through a fog, he hadn’t put it out at all. He’d set it aside to drink while holding the phone and forgot about it. Now it’d burned down, and the corner by his bed was hazy with a fading shadow of smoke.

His phone rang. The sound was jarring in the silent room. Even though it was right next to him on the couch, Zepile took several seconds to answer it. He legitimately expected it to go to voicemail before he managed to pick it up, glancing at the screen long enough to see it was Leorio again. At the last moment, he clicked to answer.

“Hello, again,” he said. He stood and went to the bedside table to stub out the cigarette thoroughly just in case.

“Senritsu knows Linsen. Mizaistom wants you to confirm who it was to her before you go to bed.”

“Sure.”

“I’m just calling so you know to answer your phone. She isn’t in Baleno City, she’s working, but she’ll call you in an hour, okay? It’s not going to be a number you’ll recognize.”

“You could’ve just texted me this.”

“I wanted to make sure you were up.”

“Of course I’m up. You just called.”

“I called a half hour ago.”

“Really? Huh…I must’ve dozed off when I was looking at my phone.”

“Alright, well, set an alarm if you have to. Also, Mizaistom’s sorry to keep you awake like this.”

“Of course he is. He’s polite. Also, he’s keeping himself awake, too.”

Leorio laughed. He wished Zepile a second goodnight and hung up a minute later. 

Zepile knew he wouldn’t make it out to buy beer and back in time to catch Senritsu’s call, not at the lethargic pace he was currently operating. Mizaistom had to be feeling genuinely sorry about it. By now it was guaranteed Mizaistom would have to deal with a sleep deprived and irate Zepile when he arrived at seven, but for his part, Zepile didn’t mind staying up too much. Senritsu’s call gave him something to look forward to for the first half of the night. What he was going to do with the three hours or so until Mizaistom arrived was a mystery he didn’t have the energy to figure out. The obvious answer was to watch tv and doze, but that would be so much easier if he had beer.

With a sudden sense of purpose, Zepile sprang to his feet. He took a calendar out from the desk drawer and filled in a date he’d just remembered and was worried he might forget completely later. Fiammata and Fulmineo had invited him to a party, an event for the Baleno City's movers and shakers, in two weeks. Everyone else he'd met that evening had eagerly seconded the invitation, and after one of them mentioned Neon Nostrade, Zepile had been certain why: They all wanted him to meet with the Nostrades. 

Neon would be interested in the Scarlet Eyes, and the other collectors were hoping Neon and her security team of Hunters would be able to suss out the veracity of Zepile’s claim that he had a connection to a trove of them. Few other collectors had the resources or experience to try it themselves, though Fiammata had supposedly made her own first, tentative attempt by sending Linsen to speak with Zepile privately. The others had decided together that if Neon Nostrade got a set of eyes out of Zepile, then he was the real deal, and they could all spring on him at once, requesting their own eyes at whatever price necessary.

“Mister Popular,” muttered Zepile to himself, drawing out the syllables as he saved the date on the calendar under “shindig” and left it at that. He remembered his beer next, now room temperature, and went to finish it. He winced as it went down too quickly and gave the can an injured look as he threw it away in the trash bin beside the desk. For a little while he stood there, forlornly considering the empty cans from a couple nights before and wondered why he’d been so hasty and wasteful back then. Mizaistom had tidied it all up for him, though he’d told Mizaistom to leave outright. The next day, Mizaistom had made sure to call and remind Zepile to avoid having housekeeping make up the room more than once or twice a week, and only if he had his paperwork with him or was around to keep an eye on the housekeeping staff. It was better, however, if he simply kept the room up himself.

The phone rang over an hour later while Zepile was watching reruns on a York Shin channel of a popular arbitration-based reality court show. He’d been entertaining himself by imagining he was watching something of Mizaistom’s life, all law and order and punishing wrongdoers. Miziastom’s experience definitely involved a lot more advocacy and probably way more advanced litigation than straightforward civil cases that could be broadcast on network television and decided by a single judge in minutes. That said, it was fun picturing Mizaistom as the judge, bumbling as he tried desperately to arbitrate on camera while not offending anyone in the room, a world apart from to the normally quippy and cancerous judges people enjoyed watching. Someone like Mizaistom would be far too polite for television entertainment, though Zepile secretly suspected Mizaistom wasn’t nearly as nice in court as he tried to be in his daily life. Regardless, it amused Zepile infinitely more to imagine Mizaistom struggling at something for once, even if the entire scenario was impossible.

“That sounds like the same Linsen,” said Senritsu after Zepile had described the person he’d met at the Bagliore house in as much detail as he could remember. The stress of the experience had managed to wipe his memory much more than he'd thought. ”He’s a Nen-user, but he probably didn’t use his hatsu on you. He’s more careful than that. He probably just sent malicious aura at you to try to intimidate you into giving him answers.”

“It worked, sort of,” said Zepile. “I was afraid for my life. I felt like I was facing a monster.”

“You probably weren’t cooperating as much as he wanted you to, though he was being a bit extreme if you felt like you were in that much danger,” said Senritsu. She sounded oddly matter-of-fact about everything, since she was talking about something that was a part of was her everyday life. Zepile wondered what it must be like, to live in a world where such things were so commonplace it became hard to sympathize with someone who'd experienced a piece of that overwhelming danger for the very first time. “Maybe he sensed you had some Nen ability and thought you’d need a little extra encouragement? He was probably desperate for information and end up overthinking the situation.”

“Desperate?" asked Zepile, not liking the sound of it because desperation almost invariably went hand-in-hand with extreme measures. "Why would he be that desperate?”

“It’s been a long time since anyone's seen Scarlet Eyes, for sale or otherwise. Everything that’s left is hidden away. So, if he was following the Nostrade family’s orders and not the Bagliore siblings’, then it makes sense that he’d try to work fast.”

“What’s the big rush?”

“Kurapika’s getting anxious, and Kurapika gives the orders when it comes to acquiring new treasures for Neon Nostrade.”

A wave of strange, unexpected relief passed through Zepile at the discovery that he might have Kurapika’s attention if someone like Linsen had begun to show interest in him. It meant the mission with Mizaistom might almost be over. Then, Zepile could go home and forget about Hunters and human remains and everything else in Baleno City.

Almost simultaneously, the sudden relief was overshadowed by a stronger sense of dread. The closer Zepile got to Kurapika, the closer he got to dangerous Nen-users who might not stop to run his face and name by someone like Kurapika before they acted. Zepile was confident that if Kurapika learned who he was, he’d be safe from the Nostrade Family, but the name “Zepile” wasn’t uncommon where Zepile was from, and it felt ridiculous thinking Kurapika would remember him very much anyway. They’d only met once while Kurapika had been awake, but it’d been in a hallway in passing while Zepile had been getting ready to head out to an auction with Gon and Killua. Zepile himself could barely remember the generic exchange he and Kurapika had had. Zepile had probably said something normal, like how it was good Kurapika was awake, before asking him how he was holding up. He couldn’t recall Kurapika’s response. Gon had then come out into the hall showing off his suit, with Killua trailing behind him complaining that Gon needed to button his shirt cuffs before he put the jacket on. Zepile had become distracted helping Killua sort Gon out while Kurapika laughed and wished them all luck while they were out. 

Zepile remembered that one laugh clearer than anything else about Kurapika. When Leorio talked about how important Kurapika was to him or how much he worried about him, Zepile imagined Kurapika either laughing or sick in bed, and he couldn’t help but agree. Currently, Zepile didn’t know what to imagine Kurapika as, because he could reconcile either image he knew with the very real and present danger of desperate Nen-users and the powerful organizations they worked for.

“Are you alright?” asked Senritsu, surprising Zepile with the suddenness of the question and its sincerity. Leorio had told him countless times not to lie to Senritsu, but he wasn’t about to start sharing his feelings and giving her answers to questions she hadn’t started asking yet.

“Alright in what way?” 

“You don’t sound well. Leorio told me you were having trouble sleeping.”

“I told him that I _thought_ I was going to have trouble sleeping,” said Zepile. “It wasn’t a promise. I was just venting.”

“I’m on a break for the rest of the afternoon,” said Senritsu. Her businesslike tone made it clear she’d ignored what Zepile had just told her about venting. “Listen closely. I have a proposal.” 

The inconsistent volume of Senritsu’s voice told Zepile she’d stood up and was moving somewhere. There was a soft thud and the loud clicks of a series of thick metal clasps being released. 

“I’m a musician, and my specialty is using music to help others,” explained Senritsu. The sounds Zepile had heard must’ve indicated the opening of an instrument case on a table. “I began developing my skills with that goal in mind well before I decided to become a Hunter. Plenty of studies indicate that music can be used to reduce pain, enhance cognitive performance, and alter people’s emotions to soothe stress and lift spirits. Music’s an effective and relatively lost-cost way to relieve much of the suffering people endure in daily life.”

“Um. Okay…."

“Have you heard the proverb ‘Music has charms to soothe a savage breast’?”

“I think so.”

“Excellent. That proverb more or less encapsulates my approach to using Nen, and it applies in specific instances of combat as much as it applies to my use of Nen to help others, to soothe the beasts inside them, so to speak.” 

“Are you telling me you fight people with music?”

“I emit Nen using sound waves as a conduit. And no, it’s not always to fight. In this instance, I would like to help you with my Nen, but I know you’re undecided on how you feel about Nen in general, so I thought I should explain and ask your consent beforehand. Leorio, of course, told me to go right ahead and hit you with the helping Nen now, ask questions later, but I think you deserve a say in the matter.”

“Oh. You want to use Nen on me?”

“Leorio thinks it’s a good idea. I more or less agree. After your encounter with Linsen, I think you need to experience some non-combat Nen so you can see that Nen’s not all about fighting and hurting people with special powers. In practice, Nen is used more often for good things rather than to cause pain or defeat enemies. As Hunters, Leorio and I can, and do, fight using our Nen when we have to, but when it comes to our personal abilities, we prefer to use our Nen to improve the lives of others.”

“So, you want to use Nen on me...to improve my life?”

“You’ll be fine. It’s only a song.”

“A Nen song.”

“It’s more like a song imbued with Nen. I’m not a Transmuter. I don’t give my Nen the properties of song…whatever that might entail. I use sound waves to emit my Nen over distances, which restricts its highest potency to my immediate area. Beyond that, acoustics determine how effective my ability is. So, do you have a pair of headphones?”

“I don’t have any here.”

“Then, you’ll have to turn on your phone’s speakers. The sound will be distorted and the ability will lose some of its effectiveness, but it’s better to surround yourself with the sound rather than play it all directly into one ear. Try to make it as immersive as possible.”

“Okay. Sure. Give me a minute,” said Zepile. He put out his cigarette and got up to search around the hotel room. He returned a minute later. “I have a glass for water,” he said as sat back onto the bed. “I can put the phone in there to amplify the sound.”

“Good idea! Keep it close. But also make sure you’re in a comfortable position to sleep.”

Zepile set the phone in the glass and placed the glass on the bedside table. He moved his pillow as close as possible and got under the covers.

“It won’t be weird, will it?" he asked as he sat up to fluff the pillow. "What does Nen even feel like?”

“There isn't one, specific way for a Nen effect to feel. How it goes depends on the intention of the user. Nen is heavy influenced by willpower, what the user wants their aura to do for them. That’s the reason why a Nen ability, like any personal creation, is a good reflection of the person who created it. The more you know about a person, the more you can predict what sort of ability they might have, and vice versa.”

Zepile scoffed as he fell back into the pillow, facing up. “You know, I always say you can’t appraise people as easily as you can appraise antiques, but I guess Nen-users don’t think so.”

Senritsu didn’t even attempt to argue otherwise. “Very talented Nen-users are excellent judges of others,” she told him. “I’m willing to share more with you about my abilities than I would with Mizaistom, for example, because you have the trust of Leorio, Killua, and Gon, and those three are exceptional Hunters for their age and experience.”

“You aren’t friends with Mizaistom?” asked Zepile in surprise. Somehow he'd naturally assumed all the Hunters he knew were close, but at the same time, he remembered Leorio hadn't know Mizaistom until recently, either.

“I hardly know Mizaistom.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve heard of him since he’s a Two-star Hunter and a Zodiac, but I met him for the first time only a short time ago.”

“And you don’t trust him?”

“Well. I wouldn’t say I outright don’t trust him,” said Senritsu. She paused to reconsidered her choice of words. “He’s earnest. I believe he has good intentions. But, he’s a stranger to me, and I don’t know anyone else who knows him personally that can vouch for him.” 

“Leorio knows him.”

“They’ve only met recently, too, and Leorio didn’t take to him quickly at all.”

“Should I be worried, then? Is it dangerous to trust him?”

“Oh no, not at all,” said Senritsu too quickly. It was hard to tell if she meant it or simply didn’t want to cause a rift between Zepile and Mizaistom that might hurt the mission. Awkwardly, she tried to explain herself better. 

“My reservations about sharing my abilities with Mizaistom have nothing to do with anything that affects your situation,” said Senritsu with enough conviction to compel Zepile to believe her. “At his core, Mizaistom is a good person trying to do the right thing. But, that alone doesn’t mean I, as a fellow Hunter, need to trust him with my secrets. Hunters have a tendency, for better or for worse, to hoard secrets from each other. Maybe it’s a consequence of how we use our Nen, or maybe it’s something else, but that’s how we are. In any case, the level of trust between Gon, Killua, Leorio, and Kurapika is extremely uncommon. They’re exceptions. My reluctance to share my ability with Mizaistom is the norm.”

“And he keeps his ability from you as well?”

“Yes. It goes both ways. In fact, I don’t even know the real reason why he’s looking for Kurapika. I just know it has to do with Leorio, and then something about recent Hunter Association politics.”

“Why don’t you ask Leorio? Leorio knows.”

“Of course he knows, but I trust Mizaistom’s decisions, and trusting his decisions means not going behind his back to learn things that aren’t pertinent to me and to my role. Plus, I already know above all else that Leorio wants Kurapika to be found, so, although it’s not clear to me how Leorio got someone as high up in the organization as Mizaistom Nana to be the one looking for Kurapika, I trust that Mizaistom knows what he’s doing. I also agree that the best way to draw Kurapika out is by giving him an incentive with this special lead Mizaistom has on the Scarlet Eyes. However, I have my own mission to complete, my own interests, and I don’t need to be more involved in your own mission than I already am.”

“What if Kurapika’s in trouble?” asked Zepile. He couldn't fight the feeling that he was being cut loose and abandoned by Senritsu, though she’d never had a significant role in the mission or his everyday life anyway. “Wouldn’t you want to help him?”

“Kurapika can take care of himself. Believe me.”

Zepile again pictured the only two versions of Kurapika he knew. His mind lingered on the sick young man laying on a futon with Leorio sitting hunched over on the floor beside him. He remembered Senritsu as well, smiling and thanking Zepile whenever he brought them something to eat or stopped by to ask if she and Leorio maybe needed anything while he was out.

“You don’t know if Mizaistom wants to find Kurapika for a good reason or a bad reason,” said Zepile, “and you’re fine with that.”

“Mizaistom himself doesn’t know if it’s ultimately a good reason or a bad one,” said Senritsu, her tone chiding him for the poorly veiled accusation in his words. “Anyway, I can hear how you're trying to pretend like you don’t know the exact reason Mizaistom needs to find Kurapika.” Zepile grumbled and nodded, admitting this was true. “I’m glad he’s told you, since it means he’s decided you’re working with him, not for him. It reassures me that he’s genuinely somewhat fair-minded.”

Zepile scoffed at this, and Senritsu told him to stop lying. He hadn’t said anything, but she assured him he hadn't needed to say a word. A person didn’t need to speak to misrepresent the truth.

“Are you in a position you can sleep in comfortably?” asked Senritsu, going back to the matter at hand. “The ability I’m going to use will put you to sleep. It’s the only one I’m sure from experience will work over the phone.”

“I guess I’m comfortable,” said Zepile. “Just start whenever, I guess. Should I close my eyes or...?”

“It’s the same either way,” said Senritsu. There was a rustle of movement on her end. When her voice returned, she was counting down from five.

Obediently, Zepile leaned back and shut his eyes, apprehensive and even a little afraid of what was about to happen. The thin, trembling sound of flute music vibrated around the glass and up into the hotel room, hitting him more like a tangible, soft breeze than a wave of invisible sound energy. He imagined it growing into a physical presence in the room, spreading out into every corner and reverberating back. As the power increased, he felt the uncomfortable similarity between it and the feeling of dread that had enveloped him earlier when he’d met Linsen. This time, he wasn't anxious or scared, not because he magically wasn't worried, but because an impenetrable wall of sound had severed his connection to such emotions. In a detached, logical way, Zepile was aware of how disturbing it was to have his negative emotions shut off, but he couldn’t register the accompanything feeling of being disturbed by it in any way beyond a purely cognitive understanding that feeling disturbed was the proper and true response.

In seconds, Zepile decided he would never agree to this sort of thing ever again. Even as he was pulled towards sleep and soothing calm, something inside him tensed and wavered at how unnatural it all was. The recurring thought—that he was fine, that no-one had forced him to undergo this odd sort of Nen hypnosis—spoke over his doubts until they were drowned out and he was, against his will, reassured.

Zepile’s final waking thoughts were about the restorative benefits of sleep and how tired he was. When sleep itself finally arrived soon after, he didn’t, or more likely couldn’t, fight against it any longer and drifted off.


	14. Security

It didn’t take long for Mizaistom to notice Zepile begin to stir. He reached the bedside and was peering down as Zepile eyes fluttered opened and then squeezed shut at the brightness of what seemed to be every light in the hotel room turned on.

“Good. You’re early,” said Mizaistom in a plain, businesslike manner as though Zepile had walked into the room at that moment instead of risen groggily from an indeterminate number of hours asleep. “First things first,” Mizaistom went on. “The good news is that we have the attention of the Nostrade family. We aren’t certain if Kurapika himself has been informed, but Linsen is Kurapika’s direct subordinate, so there’s a chance Kurapika’s either involved or soon will be.”

“Awesome,” murmured Zepile. He struggled to stay awake as the calm feeling that had lulled him to sleep the night before wrapped around his brain and tried to pull him backwards, head first, into another deep and dreamless slumber.

“The bad news, of course, is that you’ve revealed there’s a Hunter involved, which raises the stakes for you considerably. Given the circumstances, however, I understand why you thought it was necessary to share such information. One of the few things likely to make a Hunter rethink his approach and buy yourself time is to tell him he’s dealing with another Hunter.”

“That guy, Linsen…he was a Hunter?”

“Yes. Kurapika’s closest subordinates are all fellow Hunters. When Kurapika joined the Nostrades, the family exclusively hired Nen-users for protection, but, since the family wasn’t powerful enough to hire from within the mafia community, they were forced to send out general applications through recruitment agencies. Because of this, the Nostrade family organization has a disproportionate number of Hunters involved compared to what you’ll find in most other mafia families.”

“Cool. That’s cool. I’m going back to sleep,” said Zepile. He didn’t mean to sound rude or dismissive, but whether he was going to sleep or not wasn’t a choice he was being given. As his rising fear and desire to escape from the mission and anything to do with dangerous, unknown Hunters grew, so did the counteractive effects of the lingering, soothing Nen on his mind.

Oddly, though Zepile struggled to keep his eyes open, his ears remained unnaturally attuned to the room around him. He caught a thin, faraway voice scratching its way out of the speaker of a phone as Mizaistom stood over him, leaning down to get a closer look.

“You woke him up too early,” Senritsu was explaining. “He was supposed to sleep for another hour.”

“It’s already ten in the morning. He’ll miss two appointments by the time he wakes up according to the schedule in front of me.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” said Senritsu. “I’m out of town and mixed up the time conversion. I thought he’d be up by half past eight.”

“You can’t undo the effect?”

“By the time I find a place to stop, take out my flute, and play it, he’ll be up anyway. Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I understand. I’m the one who gave Leorio permission to use Nen on him anyway. It’s my fault for not asking for all the details.”

“You know, I’m honestly surprised you got him to wake up even a little. Too bad you told him something that put him in a bad mood again and sent him right back to sleep.”

“I understand. Since this was one of your abilities, do you know if I should I expect him to wake up suddenly, or gradually?”

“It’s usually pretty gradual. It’s really hard to pull yourself out of that feeling of absolute peace. I can hear it from here, how calm he is. He’s completely different from yesterday.”

“How was he yesterday?”

“Frightened, kind of jittery, but also, weighed down with something. It sounded exhausting. I could hardly hear him speaking over it all. That’s partly why I knocked him out directly instead of taking more time. I didn’t want to hear it any more.”

“It’s fine. I understand. I’ll wait around here until he’s up. I’ll call you if he doesn’t for some reason.”

“I’ve never had someone not wake up. However, it’s harder to lull people into a calmer state over the phone, so I had to use more blatant commands than than usual. It didn’t help that he was fighting me every step of the way as I was trying to get him to relax. I ended up delivering a larger dose when it was time to send him to sleep. You might need to make sure _your_ morning is free, if you’re going to wait it out. He might sleep all day.”

“I’m free until four in the afternoon. I really hope that’s enough time.”

Zepile didn’t know what more was said after this. He fell to sleep at once, as if a switch had been flipped, turning off his conscious mind. All he knew was that a flicker of time had passed, infinite and dark like being anesthetized for surgery. Then, just as abruptly, his consciousness was handed back to him as the power of Senritsu’s Nen released its hold. 

“It only took you an extra half hour. That wasn’t too bad,” said Mizaistom when he heard Zepile beginning to stir once more. Zepile was awake in moments without any signs of grogginess, which highlighted more the unnaturalness of the sort of sleep he’d lost nearly his entire morning to. 

Mizaistom wasn’t standing near the bed anymore. He’d cleared himself a spot among Zepile’s books and papers on the dining table and was sitting there with a laptop open, working.

“It’s almost noon?” asked Zepile in alarm after he caught sight of the clock on the bedside table. “Shit. I haven’t slept in this long since I was a teenager.”

“You still haven’t,” said Mizaistom. “It was the Nen that kept you asleep. I wouldn’t count it against you.”

“Thanks,” grumbled Zepile as he tried to figure out how to wrap his sheets around him so that he wouldn’t have to crawl out of bed half naked with company across the room to judge him for not sleeping with pyjamas. Zepile had never got ready for bed after his shower, since he hadn’t been expecting to sleep. His mind had been in too much of a fog to provide him with the foresight necessary to at least dress for when Mizaistom stopped by in the morning.

“I’m gonna take a shower and stuff,” said Zepile as he wriggled out of bed, cocooned in a sheet. He brought the musty towel he’d slept in the night before with him and tossed it into the corner of the bathroom, where it sat along with the bathrobe he’d been meaning to exchange with housekeeping for three days already. He groaned as he was forced to consider what a disorganized mess he must’ve looked in the hours Mizaistom had be forced to sit around, waiting for him to get up, surrounded by his untidy hotel room and dirty laundry.

Though he’d been sleeping continuously for hours, Zepile’s mouth wasn’t dry, and there was no sand in his eyes. It was more like he’d been held in stasis and recharged like a phone overnight. His face was clearer, brighter, without any trace of the weariness that had sullied his reflection in the bathroom mirror for the past week. Even the mild headache he inevitably got when he drank beer before bed was suspiciously absent. 

“Hey, so uh, have you really been here since seven?” asked Zepile when he stepped out of the bathroom in yet another towel—the last one large enough to traipse around the hotel room in as rummaged through drawers for clothes to change into. Mizaistom, looking bored with his head in his hand as he scrolled through something long on his computer, nodded.

“Well, shit. I’m sorry."

“It isn’t your fault,” said Mizaistom. “When you’re done getting dressed, start packing. I’m moving you to more secure accommodations.”

“This place isn’t secure?” asked Zepile. He looked around him as though he thought he might find a hole in the wall or a camera lense pointed right at him. “Why did you put me in an unsecure place in the first place? You wanted to get me killed?”

“This place wasn’t as suspicious for someone like you,” said Mizaistom with a shrug like it hardly needed explaining. “It’s the sort of hotel you’d have stayed in if you were in town working for yourself.”

“But now?”

“Now, someone knows you’re working for a Hunter. You no longer need to keep up the appearance of being an average antiques trader.”

Zepile stared at the shirts in the open drawer in front of him. He was caught between feeling offended, annoyed, and something like a calm, rational acceptance that what Mizaistom had said was true. He was quick to blame the last, sensible reaction on the residual Nen in his system.

“If it’s so unsecure in this place, then why are you even here right now? If Hunters are watching me, won’t they notice the big-time, Two-star Zodiac guy? Aren’t you hot shit in the Hunter Association or something? You told me you were a runner-up in the election for chairman.”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“How?”

“My company was recently hired to look after you. We received the request last night when you left the Bagliore home.”

Zepile gaped at him. “Wait. So. Did you…hire yourself?”

“I wouldn’t hire myself,” said Mizaistom sternly, offended at the mere suggestion. “What’s happened is that Fiammata and Fulmineo Bagliore don’t trust the Nostrade family when it comes to acquiring Scarlet Eyes. There are rumors that it’s the Nostrades who’ve been buying up all the eyes on the market this past year. To counter any interference by the Nostrade family, the Bagliore siblings contacted another well-known security company that, like the Nostrade family’s organization, is run by and employs Hunters: Mine.”

“Fiammata didn’t send Linsen after me herself?”

“Probably not if she’s also the one who interrupted his interrogation of you.”

“Oh.”

Zepile fumbled for a shirt and pair of pants at random and disappeared for a second time into the bathroom. He emerged a few minutes later dressed and with all of his personal items packed into a plastic trash bag. He tossed the bag into a suitcase and followed it with the rest of his clothes. 

“Do I need a new phone?” asked Zepile when he spied the old one next to the full ashtray from the night before.

“No-one’s placed any Nen I can detect on your current phone, but it’s safer to replace it. Is there any information you’ll need off of it?”

“No, I keep everything recorded in more than one place. Phones are too easy to lose or damage, and my entire business depends on keeping up-to-date with my clients.”

“I’ll dispose of it for you, then,” said Mizaistom. He held out his hand for the phone, but Zepile delayed bringing it to him. Of course he hadn’t done any of his illegal business on the phone that Mizaistom himself had provided for the mission, but for a few seconds Zepile was paranoid that he might’ve slipped up on accident and left a hint about his black market dealings somewhere in his phone activity.

“It’s a good thing I didn’t have to sponsor you for a travel document, or else this situation might’ve complicated our mission considerably,” said Mizaistom after Zepile handed over the phone. He glanced at it briefly before slipping it into his pocket. “Without that, there’s no real way for anyone to know I’m responsible for you being here.”

“Doesn’t your student know? The woman I met on the flight to Swaldani City?”

“She’s not connected to this mission in any way. She’s working in Kakin now, sorting the legal quagmire surrounding the country’s proposed colonization of the Dark Continent. There’s a lot of paperwork involved, matters of international law. Whatever some provisional student of mine might be doing in Baleno City is the least of her concerns. If she met you again, she’d hardly recognize you.”

“That’s great news,” said Zepile. “Speaking from experience here, but sometimes the best impression you can leave on people is none whatsoever.”

“Oh? And what experience has taught you that?”

“Exactly the one you’re thinking of, judging by the look on your face.”

Mizaistom wiped his face of all extraneous and traitorous emotion in an instant. It shocked him that Zepile had so offhandedly admitted to his criminal past. Not sure how to take it except poorly, Mizaistom grunted and turned back to reading through the open file on his laptop. He didn’t look up again until Zepile finished packing.

“Let’s go,” said Zepile. “And pray we’ll beat the lunchtime traffic.”

Neither Mizaistom nor Zepile wasted breath praying. The afternoon traffic had long since started by the time they left the hotel, forcing them to endure multiple cycles of every stoplight along the mile and half of straight road heading north into downtown. Sitting in the backseat of the chauffeured car beside Zepile, Mizaistom chose to use the time to get a bit of housekeeping out of the way. Zepile’s safety was a paid job, and there was a procedure involved.

“Is there anything exceptional about your situation I need to bear in mind in order to better ensure your protection?” asked Mizaistom. He had a tablet on one knee and was using it to fill out a form with an electronic pencil. “For example, is there anything or anyone we’ll have to look out for besides Linsen or the Nostrade family henchmen? Do you have enemies?”

“I don’t make enemies, not on purpose. When I make them on accident, I endeavor to unmake them. It’s too much stress to keep up with people who hate your guts.”

“Are you in debt to anyone?”

“No. My credit score isn’t high, but I’ve never defaulted on a loan.”

“Have you been involved in the recent past in any business dealings of a criminal or otherwise suspect nature?”

“No, but then..." said Zepile, looking away and shrugging before lowering his voice and forcing Mizaistom to lean in to hear him better. "I’m on this really shady mission right now where I have to sell human body part collectables to connoisseurs in order to infiltrate the black market for a mysterious Hunter guy who tells me it’s for the good of the entire Hunter Association and by extension I guess humankind, but like, I have no way of knowing if that’s true. I trust him because I’m an idiot, and also because my other Hunter friends vouched for him.”

Mizaistom pursed his lips and nodded along impatiently until Zepile was done. Without missing a beat, clarified the intent behind the question. 

“I meant more if you’ve been involved in anything in the past few months which might catch up to you while you’re under my watch.”

“You tell me,” scoffed Zepile. “Haven’t you vetted me already?”

“It’s not so simple tracking down the business activities of someone who frequently works in cash.”

“Occupational hazard,” said Zepile, nonchalantly pulling down the zipper of his coat and loosening his scarf. It was getting warm in the car, and it seemed they’d be there a while. “I have to work in cash, you see, because it’s a standard in antiques markets in my home country. It really helps to conceal all the crimes we absolutely, constantly commit against each other." Mizaistom grumbled, but didn't interject. Zepile smirked and kept talking. "As you know, it’s a lawless free-for-all out there in the antiques world. Every man for himself. Even worse, as itinerant salesmen, traders like me hold perhaps the second most disreputable reputation of all legitimate occupations worldwide.”

“The second most disreputable?”

“Second only after lawyers.”

Mizaistom’s jaw tightened and he took a slow, deep breath, summoning his fleeting patience back to him before he uttered a single word he was going to regret. His patience, however, failed to return, and he held his tongue. The rest of the stop-and-go, monotonous journey to the hotel passed in equally monotonous silence between him and Zepile.

The second hotel was indeed far from the more budget-friendly sort Zepile would’ve booked on his own. Even the first hotel Mizaistom had set him up in, with it’s long-term stay amenities and overly abundant seating options for only one person, wouldn’t have been Zepile’s first choice, either. He normally went cheap on accommodations, but since he hadn’t been the one paying, there’d been nothing to complain about. Mizaistom wouldn’t tell him who was footing the bill for the new room, whether it was Mizaistom himself or the Bagliore siblings. Zepile sarcastically thanked him for not telling when he saw how much nicer it was, announcing he didn’t want to know in whose debt he was anyway.

“I should’ve squealed about working for a Hunter sooner,” said Zepile. He dropped his bags at the door and entered the room with his arms outstretched at his sides. “This place is bigger than most apartments I’ve lived in. I could spin 360 degrees in here while doing jumping jacks. I wouldn’t hit anything.”

“Why would you even want to do that?” asked Mizaistom, unamused as he stepped past Zepile and over to the coffee maker in the corner. 

“I don’t know,” said Zepile. “Cardio?”

“The people downstairs would complain. Don’t.”

With ridiculously intense focus and determination, Mizaistom set about making himself a coffee. Zepile remembered he’d been up at 3am messaging Leorio about Zepile’s whereabouts. He'd probably been up even later, waiting to hear from Senritsu about Linsen. Then, he'd arrived to Zepile’s hotel room at seven in the morning exactly as promised only to proceed to wait nearly five hours for Zepile to wake up. If he'd slept at all, it couldn't have been more than an hour.

“Take a nap or something,” suggested Zepile. Mizaistom nearly dropped the pod of coffee he’d been about to set into the machine. He looked over at Zepile, his brow furrowed deeper in confusion than Zepile would’ve thought possible for someone as typically impassive as Mizaistom strived to be. 

“I mean,” said Zepile, motioning to the more than large enough room around them. “I have a surplus bed here that I don’t need, and you are welcome to borrow it. Or, if that's weird, you can take a nap on this bigger and nicer couch than the last one. Or the reclining armchair. Hell, you can sleep at the desk with your feet propped up if that’s more natural for you. You have options. As for us, we can do our little meeting or whatever later, when I get back. I cancelled my appointments today, but there are still plenty of dealers and collectors I haven’t sold to yet that I can try out.”

“I have my own place here in the city,” said Mizaistom stiffly, embarrassed enough that he forgot to politely thank Zepile for offering. “It’s not far. I don’t need to stay here. I don’t need a nap, either. All I need is a coffee.”

“Suit yourself,” said Zepile. He shrugged and went back to the door to finish bringing his suitcase and other bags into the main room. The hum and drip of the coffee machine filled the room behind him a moment later. Mizaistom was facing it and watching the coffee drip into the cup, bored and impatient. Zepile looked around a little and stopped in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror. He considered whether he should change into a better-coordinated outfit now that there wasn’t any rush. Mizaistom might change his mind and go home to rest, and then Zepile would have to work.

“You should advance me on my stipend,” said Zepile as he twisted his head back and forth, trying to gauge the length of the hair on the back of his neck. “I need to buy some clothes for a party in two weeks. Gotta look good.”

“Is that the note in your schedule that says ‘shindig’?” asked Mizaistom. He'd just finished emptying the last of the creamers he’d brought into his fresh cup of coffee. He tore open a plastic cutlery bag for a spoon to stir. “Who’s party is it?”

“Some fundraiser, I guess a charity thing. The Bagliores and all their friends begged me to go. I’m supposed to meet Neon Nostrade there.”

Mizaistom stopped fiddling with his coffee and spun around on his heel so fast he had the hold the counter for balance when he stopped. 

“Are you being serious?” he asked. “You’ve already got an appointment with Neon Nostrade?”

“Not a formal one,” said Zepile. He was holding the two long tails of hair on the sides of his face, covering their tips with his fingers as he tried to gauge how they’d look if they were a fair bit shorter. “But, all her flesh collecting friends want her to meet me, so it’s definitely going to happen at some point. They’re literally throwing me at her. Or, well, at Kurapika really, I guess, even if they don’t know that.”

“It must be part of why Linsen was investigating you,” said Mizaistom, already holding his chin in his hand and staring pensively at the floor across the room. “Linsen probably wants to make sure you’re a real lead before Neon Nostrade hears about you. Probably Neon will meet you anyway, whether your story checks out or not, since her friends are pushing for it, but Kurapika won’t waste his time with you unless he’s convinced your offer is legitimate. But, since he isn't going to want to make it too obvious that he’s the one who’s really after the Scarlet Eyes, he’ll use Neon’s interest as an excuse for Linsen to follow up on you.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I don’t know. It depends on how patient Kurapika is, how much time he’s giving Linsen to work with.”

Zepile winced at the sudden reminder. “Yeah, about that,” he said. “I got an inkling from Senritsu yesterday that he’s not feeling especially patient right now. She thinks that’s why Linsen jumped right to intimidation tactics rather than being subtle.”

“Ah, well, it might be a little bad, then.”

“A little?”

“They might press you harder for information than normal. And then, if they decide you’re a dead-end and you’ve wasted their time, there might be repercussions.”

Zepile’s hands dropped to his sides. “Talking about repercussions when dealing with a crime family isn’t something I’d classify as only ‘a little bad’, Mizaistom,” he said, going a pale. “Are you saying they’re going to come after me?”

“They might see fit to make you an example, perhaps, since you were introduced to them by the flesh collecting community itself. Maybe they’ll want to force people like the Bagliores to show a little more discretion before passing on a bad lead in the future.”

“I’m not a bad lead, am I?” asked Zepile. “Tell me the truth.”

“You’re not.”

Zepile almost accepted this, as usual, on face value. Then, he remembered what Senritsu had told him about Hunters withholding information from each other. He remembered that Mizaistom had never actually given him any proof that he knew where any Scarlet Eyes might be. Though Zepile had already made a joke about trusting Mizaistom too much for no reason on the car ride over, it occurred to him in that instant that the joke had carried far more truth in it than he’d intended.

“Look, Mizaistom,” said Zepile, rounding on him and striding over until only a narrow distance separated them, enough for Zepile to look Mizaistom in the eye without craning his neck. “You have to tell me if you legitimately have information on Scarlet Eyes. Look at me and tell me, swear, that you know exactly where these eyes are, because I’ve been taking nothing but your word for it until now, and if there’s even a remote possibility that I might turn out to be a bad lead to these dangerous as hell people I barely know anything about, I would really, seriously, like to know about it.”

“I know where they are. I swear. Trust me.”

Zepile relented and backed off, his hands pressed hard into the sides of his head, since there wasn’t enough hair to grab and pull on in frustration. “Ah, shit. I do,” he said, not at all happy about it. “Somehow, I trust you. I wish I didn’t, but I do anyway. Damn it.”

“Thank you.”

Zepile rolled his eyes at Mizaistom and went to sit on the bed. Mizaistom turned back to his coffee, allowing Zepile a moment of relative privacy to think his situation over and come to terms with it.

“I’m sorry for giving you a hard time this morning,” said Zepile. His hair was a mess from having run his hands over it too many times. Mizaistom faced him again, but didn’t stare. His eyes remained trained on the the coffee in his hands as he stirred and nodded.

“You couldn’t help it,” said Mizaistom, as he leaned back into the counter and took a tentative sip. He glanced at Zepile surreptitiously as he moved his head back, but Zepile was watching the floor and didn't notice. 

“No, I mean how annoying I’ve been on purpose, not the whole embarrassing sleeping in stuff that wasn’t even my fault,” said Zepile. He half-heartedly attempted a small, dismissive wave with the hand resting in his lap, but still didn't look up. With a sigh, he let out the breath he’d been holding and shook his head. “See, look,” he said. “I don’t like to inconvenience people or owe them anything, so it kind of rubbed me the wrong way that you’ve been up all morning and most of the night on my account, especially after I blew my cover and told that Linsen guy about working for a Hunter. I thought you should’ve been more upset with me, so as I do, I’ve been putting a little extra effort into trying to piss you off you when you’re already maybe at your limit.”

Mizaistom shrugged and lowered the coffee. “I’m nowhere near my limit,” he said and took another, longer sip.

“Well shit, you’re a saint.”

Mizaistom smiled barely and looked down into the cup. “I could see why you were acting that way,” he explained. “I wasn’t holding it against you. I haven’t been holding it against you every other time, either. There's always a reason.”

“I must be pretty easy to read.”

“No, you’re not. We’ve just been working long enough that I can see it. Also, Leorio’s told me you’re too proud, and how you’re acting agrees with his assessment.”

Zepile's face went through a handful of small expressions before settling on a wry grin into the middle distance directly in front of him. He scoffed and shook his head again, like he was trying over and over to shake his mind clear of something he didn't want. “You know,” he said with a lingering note of resigned laughter in his voice, “I like to say it’s a lot harder to appraise humans than it is to appraise antiques, but now that I think about it, I came to that conclusion way before I met any Hunters. Didn’t take that supernatural level of perceptiveness into account.”

“It’s still true, about how difficult it is to appraise others. My job would be easier if it weren't," said Mizaistom. He cleared his throat before admitting, "I was wrong about you at first.”

“Yeah,” said Zepile, pausing as he ran his hands over his face. "I guess you were."

Without warning, Zepile hopped to his feet and headed to the bathroom as if he’d remembered something he’d forgot. A few seconds later he walked out again and looked around before opening his suitcase. Mizaistom, who'd been waiting for something good reason why Zepile had rushed to the bathroom with such purpose, was left disappointed as Zepile busily started to unpack his clothes and personal items. Mizaistom allowed Zepile to distance himself from the conversation they’d just been having and moved to the window to look out on the street.

“As for the ‘shindig’ on your calendar,” said Mizaistom a few minutes later, still facing the window and already half finished with his coffee. “I’d prefer to attend it with you in case you meet Kurapika there directly. Who knows? In two weeks he might decide you’re worth the trouble.”

Mizaistom turned around in time to see Zepile tossing a few unopened packs of cigarettes into a drawer. “Yeah, you can guard me, I guess,” said Zepile, not too concerned about it. “You’ve already been hired to do that.”

“I don’t typically do bodyguard work myself,” said Mizaistom with a frown. “Even if I did, attending as a security agent would limit the guests I’d have access to, as well as how freely I could communicate with you, my client, since I’d be required to retain a professional distance while working.”

“I can try to get you invited,” offered Zepile as he crossed back to the other side of the room to shut his suitcase and put it away. “Maybe disguise you and say you’re a business associate of mine.”

Mizaistom thought about this and shook his head. “No. That won’t work. It’ll be too suspicious if you suddenly have a business associate out of nowhere. It’ll draw a lot of attention to me and increase the chance of someone figuring out who I am an dhow I'm actually connect you this whole affair too early.”

“Well, then, what do you want to do?” asked Zepile, a little exasperated as he bent down to pull his suitcase over to the closet. “Be my plus-one or something?”

The idea hit Mizaistom like a shock, and he froze, staring at Zepile. Having expected another quick rejection, Zepile looked over to see what was talking so long. Mizaistom conspicuously looked away, and the suitcase Zepile was pulling dropped to the floor.

“You’re _kidding_.”


	15. The Chairman

Whenever he could, instead of communicating through Q, Mizaistom preferred to meet fellow Hunters in person. It wasn’t the most secure way to communicate, but it was the most comfortable. It was why he was now sitting alone at one of the empty back tables of a bar he trusted, waiting for Cheadle and knocking the ice back and forth in a glass containing over half the White Russian he’d ordered before she’d called to tell him she’d be running late.

“You’re either in a good mood, or something terrible has happened, Mizai,” said Cheadle as she appeared at last and took her seat. She pointed to the drink in Mizaistom’s hand in answer to his inquiring look. “Is that a real drink, or just a cup of cream and milk with ice?”

“Cream and milk don’t normally come in this shade, so clearly it’s more than that,” said Mizaistom. He held the glass up so Cheadle could get a better look. “However, there is extra milk.”

Cheadle smiled at Mizaistom’s predictability. When the server came around, she ordered wine, a single glass of something with a long foreign name she pronounced perfectly. Although Cheadle wasn’t a language specialist like Pyon, she couldn’t stand being wrong more than once. As she waited for the glass to arrive, she apologized again for running so late. Being Chairman of the Hunter Association on the eve of a massive expedition to the Dark Continent, it was impossible for Cheadle to predict her availability for unrelated business. So many issues came up last minute, and by now, her leisure time had all but eroded to nothing. If her social call with Mizaistom hadn’t been a cover for an actual meeting, she’d have taken a rain check and lingered in her office working until late.

“I’ve confirmed the date of the Zodiac’s next meeting,” said Cheadle. “I’m hoping we’ll have a full set of members by then. How’s your search going? Have you located our target?”

“Figuring out his location was never the problem,” said Mizaistom. He took a short sip of his now watery drink and regretted not having finished it before the ice started to melt. “I’ve always known precisely where he is. But, he’s the sort you approach gradually, or you risk scaring him off and losing your chance.”

Cheadle let out the smallest huff of an exasperated sigh. “I really wished that man would just answer his emails," she said. "I’ve had each of his friends send him messages already, even his Nen instructor, but he never bothers to check.”

“You’re close to understanding now how it feels to be Leorio Paladiknight,” said Mizaistom, tilting the glass towards her. “At least, judging by how he talks about it. And he talks a lot.”

“This mission has been more complicated than I’d anticipated after Leorio made such a quick recommendation. I hoped it'd be a straightforward search.”

“It was. The search itself was straightforward. If my goal had been to arrest someone, this would all be over by now. Persuasion takes more time.”

“I’m sorry about that, really. I involved you because I trusted you over anyone else, but....” Cheadle sigh and looked away towards the bar. Her wine had already arrived, but she let it sit untouched on the table in front of her. Mizaistom shrugged, signaling it was fine, but wasn't sure she'd seen it.

“How’s the mission really going?” asked Cheadle. She set her hands on the edge of the table and leaned in, eager to hear the truth and offer to help move things along. “I remember you had a civilian working for you. That’s troublesome. With the way the mission is going, you might need more than a civilian’s support.”

“Zepile’s been enough help so far,” said Mizaistom, dismissing the offer. “Really. You should expect that, seeing how Leorio suggested him in the first place.”

“I know that. I do. I’m just starting to feel anxious. There isn’t much time left. The Zodiacs will convene in a little over two weeks.”

“It’s not a big deal," said Mizaistom. Cheadle was torn between either accepting his relaxed behavior with relief, or with suspicion. "If we extend the case, we extend the case. I don’t think anyone expects you to find a new Rat and Boar on such short notice.”

“But, the more time that passes after this meeting, the more difficult it will be to get our new members up to speed on the preparations for the expedition and assign them their roles. I want the new Rat and Boar working with us from the beginning.”

“Missing a few meetings won’t ruin everything. Hunters catch on quickly.”

“That isn’t the only issue,” said Cheadle. She looked tired as she removed her glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief from her bag. While she expected Mizaistom to keep a level head, she wasn't accustomed to him taking things quite as easy as he seemed to be. It was making her feel as if she were worrying for nothing, and she wanted him to know she wasn't. “If I take too long finding new members, it could make me look indecisive. I have three stars and years of experience behind me. I, more than anyone, ought to have a few replacements in mind who will accept the offer.”

“It’s a very big offer.”

“Do you still think Leorio only suggested Kurapika in order to get out of joining the Zodiacs himself?”

“No,” said Mizaistom. His expression left no doubt to his conviction. “Leorio intends to join. He always intended to join.”

“Then why did he give us such a difficult recommendation?”

Mizaistom shrugged, a little embarrassed to give an explanation that was perhaps too simple and silly for to anyone who hadn’t spoke about Kurapika with Leorio at any length. “I think it was just because he doesn’t want to be alone around a lot of strangers,” admitted Mizaistom. “And Kurapika’s the only qualified Hunter he knows well enough to volunteer for the position.”

“Is that what you think now? Absolutely?”

“At this point, I’m mostly confident that’s the case. Leorio is very straightforward when you talk to him about it.”

"Really?" asked Cheadle. Mizaistom nodded, and it was enough.

Mizaistom gave up on the watery White Russian and moved it to the end of the table so that a waiter might take it away. Cheadle remembered her wine and finally drank a little, but her thoughts travelled elsewhere, far beyond the bar and this meeting. Mizaistom couldn’t guess what it might be. Perhaps she was going over the upcoming Zodiac meeting and the encroaching threat of not having a Boar or a Rat by that date. She could just as easily have been thinking about anything else, though. Her mind was too sharp and spread over too many places to stall and waste time on one chain of thought for long.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t add someone else to the mission?” asked Cheadle again. “I’m nervous about a non Nen-user being your only support, even if Leorio did suggest him. It’s dangerous. Doesn’t this Zepile person understand the danger?”

“He’s incredibly aware of the danger,” said Mizaistom with certainty. “Don’t worry about him, though. I’m going to be keeping a closer eye on him now that we’re close to finishing our mission. I’ve reassigned most of my obligations and opened up my schedule. I’ll be heading out the Baleno City tomorrow. When you see me again, I’ll have Kurapika himself in tow, right on time for the meeting and the formal introductions.”

“Are you confident you’ll meet such a close deadline?”

“Zepile’s been working hard. He’s made some very useful connections in a considerably short amount of time.”

“Ah,” said Cheadle. “So, the White Russian with extra milk is because you’re in a good mood? Everything's going well?” She smiled again, and Mizaistom didn't miss the genuine flicker of relief behind it. At last, she was able to take more than just the smallest sip of her wine.

Mizaistom wasn’t sure Cheadle’s deduction had been all that accurate, but then again, even Mizaistom himself couldn’t say with certainty whether he was in an especially good mood or not. He was pleased that Zepile had made a real breakthrough winning over the Bagliore siblings, but he was worried as well, because Zepile had also given away his cover to a Nostrade family underling. Part of Mizaistom wanted to complain, though mildly, about having to pretend to be Zepile’s date at the upcoming party. He wanted to hear Cheadle laugh, then sympathize, and then assure him he’d be fine, reminding him that he’d pretended to be married for months on a mission before, and how that’d been a much greater challenge than a single night out on a date. Cheadle would know, too, because she’d heard him complain and criticize the team leader's decision years ago when it’d happened. For all his pessimistic outlook and preemptive apologizing for how terrible of a liar he was, none of Mizaistom's worst fears or concerns had come to pass, and, since then, he’d had no further problems adopting similar cover stories for missions. 

Regardless, Mizaistom still longed for someone to commiserate with him, since he wasn’t typically paired up with a non-Nen-user as irritating as Zepile could be. The problem was, no-one he counted as a friend knew about his mission except for Cheadle, and ultimately, he told her nothing. Though they'd set up their meeting under the pretense of two co-workers meeting up for a drink to unwind after hours, Mizaistom wasn’t really going to waste Cheadle’s time with personal issues. Cheadle had more important things to do. She wasn’t just an old friend of his anymore, she was the chairman, and he needed to respect her and her time as an authority figure within the organization he served.

“If the mission is going well, and you really don’t need help, then I guess should get going, Mizai,” said Cheadle. She began to collect her coat and bag, leaving the half-finished glass of wine on the table, abandoned. “My research team has been asking me to come by the lab to approve some of the documentation for the process one of our newer members has been developing to chemically detect Cynarl Disease in esophageal cells. Of course I can approve everything they send me online, but I’ve been meaning to touch base face-to-face with everyone, since all the little problems that come up, the ones that can potentially snowball, are the sort people won’t ever formally email you about, but will bring up in person during regular conversation.”

“It’s not a problem,” Mizaistom assured her with a slight nod, inviting Cheadle to leave whenever she wished even as she was already slipping on a larger pair of sunglasses over her usual eyeglasses. He lingered alone at the table after she'd gone. According to the clock above the bar, they'd been together for a total of fifteen minutes. Of course, a whole quarter of an hour plus the time it took to arrive wasn’t an insignificant amount of time for the Hunter Association chairman to spend on unofficial business, but Mizaistom had the gnawing feeling he hadn’t said everything he’d needed to. Instead, he’d played down the still very real chance of failure of the mission in favor of convincing her he didn’t need more Hunters involved.

Mizaistom hadn't lied outright, but the full truth was that the mission was in far more of an indeterminate state than he’d let on, equally balanced between success and failure until Zepile got a chance to meet Neon Nostrade. Cheadle would’ve sent along another Hunter whether Mizaistom want it or not if she’d known how much of the mission depended on Zepile’s work alone. Mizaistom’s own efforts had all resulted in stagnation and dead ends. Zepile was making much better progress, but his quick advances came with higher stakes and a much lower margin for error. All Zepile needed to do was rub the wrong person the wrong way, and Mizaistom would have to choose between getting Zepile out of trouble or putting the success of the mission ahead of Zepile’s safety.

Mizaistom’s hand tightened its grip around the glass he was no longer holding. Wealthy flesh collectors and the mafia made a lethal combination, being those in the criminal underworld with experience in taking lives, and those with enough money and power to buy whoever’s life they wanted. If the matter ever did come down to life or death or some such extreme, Mizaistom would protect Zepile first. It was the right thing to do, no compromising. The Zodiacs didn’t need a Boar or a Rat at such a cost. Cheadle would agree, he was certain, but he hadn’t wanted her worry about it needlessly while everything was still up in the air.

As though sensing the direction of Mizaistom’s thoughts all the way from Baleno City, Zepile chose that exact moment to call. Mizaistom felt an strange surge or relief when he saw the name, answered, and heard Zepile’s voice on the other end. At the same time, he was somewhat concerned, since it was an unusual time for Zepile to be calling. Mizaistom would arrive in Baleno City tomorrow evening, which meant this was information so important that it couldn’t wait even a day.

“Alright, so, I’ve met Neon Nostrade.”

Instead of get swept up in the good news, Mizaistom's instincts as a Nen-user kicked in, and he tried to get a feel for Zepile’s tone of voice. He needed to discern whether Zepile sounded nervous or elated or…perhaps he was being held hostage and forced to call Mizaistom so that someone else could try to figure out Mizaistom's identity over the phone. The Nostrade family employed enough Hunters that Mizaistom couldn’t have trusted Zepile even if he’d contacted him using Q.

“Anyway,” Zepile continued without obligating Mizaistom to respond, “I’m just telling you really quick since it’s the kind of thing you’d probably want to know as soon as possible. We didn’t talk about the eyes or anything, probably because it was at the Bagliore house with a lot of people around, so they’d have been eavesdropping to try to get ahead of her. She invited me to her house to see her collection, though. Naturally, Fiammata tried to turn that into a dinner party. Neon hasn’t decided yet, but she said she’ll catch up with me later, since I’m going to the same party she is in two weeks. I let her know I’m not planning to be in town much longer than that, and Fiammata ran with it, insisting we all really should have a dinner party at the Nostrade house together whenever Neon wants to show off her collection. Neon, of course, still hasn’t made a decision. Said she’ll need to speak to her father. Someone commented to me later that she actually has to check with the family’s boss, which I’m assuming means Neon’s father isn’t the one who’s really in charge of the Nostrade family. Which, in turn, I’m assuming means…well….”

Zepile paused meaningfully and Mizaistom found himself nodding when there was no way Zepile could see him.

“And so, anyway,” said Zepile, coming back. “When I was leaving, Linsen showed up. Didn’t try to scare the hell out of me this time, which I guess I appreciate. Said he wanted my contact information, since it wasn’t prudent for Neon to ask me for it herself. I gave him my work contact. After that, it took me over an hour to get back to my hotel, because I accidentally told the driver the address of the first hotel and didn’t even realize I’d got it wrong until I was standing in the lobby wondering what the hell happened. So, whoever you have watching over me tonight was probably rolling their eyes and is going to write you a report about me and what an idiot I am, but in my defense, I was in shock from having met Neon Nostrade and then running into that creepy guy Linsen again, all at once. So, try to cut me a break.”

In spite of himself, Mizaistom smiled.

“Anyway,” said Zepile one last time, indicating he was winding down the call, “that’s all of it, really. Plan accordingly, I guess. Just thought you’d like to know.”

“Good work,” said Mizaistom, the only thing he’d said throughout the entire call except for a short, perfunctory greeting. Zepile said something dismissive to deflect the praise, and shortly after hung up.

“You look unusually pleased about something,” said Cheadle, reappearing across the table and reaching down into the seat to tug a scarf free from where it’d fallen between the cushions. “Good news to go with your good mood, I suppose.”

“It was a work call,” said Mizaistom, quickly dropping his smile. “You forgot your scarf?”

Cheadle nodded heavily, but she shot him a complicit smile. “Business must be good,” she said, pointing to the phone Mizaistom still held. It took him a second to realize she meant the private security company he ran, but he didn't correct her misconception. “I’m glad you’re not under too much stress.”

“You’re one to talk about stress,” said Mizaistom. “You deserve to relax a little, chairman or not, but you never do.”

“Meeting with my team is perfectly relaxing,” said Cheadle as she wrapped the scarf around her neck and tucked it into the front of her coat. “I’m glad I’ll have some time to see them. It’s work, yes, technically, but it’s the sort of work I like, the sort I became a Hunter for. It’s exactly the kind of thing I want to be doing in my free time.”

“Then, you’d better hurry,” said Mizaistom. He looked around to call a server for the check, but Cheadle motioned for him that there was no need. She’d already paid for them both when she’d left originally. In that case, Mizaistom supposed he could go as well, and stood to put on his coat. He waved goodbye to Cheadle, who he urged to hurry on ahead of him to make up the time wasted rushing back for her scarf. A minute after her, Mizaistom departed, as well. There was some packing left to do for his upcoming extended stay in Baleno City. It was time to wrap that up and then get plenty of sleep, so he'd be refreshed and ready to tackle Zepile’s inevitably poor mood once Zepile realized how thoroughly Mizaistom planned to interview him about every possible thing he could remember about meeting Neon Nostrade.


	16. Disguise

Mizaistom needed a disguise for the Bagliore party. First, Zepile wanted to see what makeup could do for them, although neither he nor Mizaistom had much experience in makeup application. Zepile confessed that he'd never worn a disguise in his life, which Mizaistom seemed to doubt. Still, he made an effort to learn the skills to craft one, studying makeup tutorials online and asking advice at department store beauty counters in his free time. Mizaistom, meanwhile, sourced materials from recommendation lists on the Hunter website. Since he wasn’t playing a specific character, building a look for himself was less straightforward than he’d know it to be in the past. Previous undercover roles had always been assigned to him based on the needs of mission, but now his only objective was to become someone, anyone, other than Mizaistom Nana. He found it hard to imagine who else he could possibly be.

In this instance, Zepile came through. While he'd honestly never worn a real disguise, he was familiar with misrepresenting himself. Creating a backstory for Mizaistom wasn't a challenge. The story had to be simple and based on who Mizaistom already was, because Mizaistom wasn’t an actor and couldn’t become another person in a week. Luckily for Mizaistom, parties and charity events weren’t typically places where people got to know each other deeply. All he really needed were a few key traits, which Zepile selected for him in minutes between watching tutorials about how apply makeup to facial hair.

1\. Mizaistom was dating Zepile. 2. He was a lawyer who worked in estate-planning, because it seemed the most logical sort of lawyer Zepile might run into. And, 3. He wasn’t from Baleno City, he was from York Shin, which was where everyone assumed Zepile was from anyway. It created a reason for why they'd got along so well so quickly, and it would let Mizaistom steer the conversation towards Baleno City like a tourist and avoid ever really talking about himself.

Mizaistom liked the idea of playing an alternate version himself that was relatively faithful to reality minus the fact that he wasn’t involved with Zepile. Their assumed relationship was the only overt lie he needed to convince anyone of. His wandering mind had ample opportunity to go over how precisely he might pull off that deception as he was forced to sit still and let Zepile apply various combinations of makeup to his face, study the results, swear at it, and start over. This train of thought came crashing to halt, however, when Mizaistom realized he'd started asking himself if Zepile counted as his type, and if he wasn't, could he imagine himself ever realistically dating anyone like Zepile ever?

Mizaistom had come dangerously close to forming an actual opinion on Zepile as a romantic prospect before realizing with a sudden jolt of awareness that it wasn’t something he needed to know. Whether he would or wouldn’t do such a thing under normal circumstances wasn’t going to help him in his portrayal. In fact, it could only complicate matters. A resounding “no, never” would only make the relationship more unnatural and forced. Any answer other than "no", however....

“Dammit," muttered Zepile again, looked more defeat by the minute as the vision in his mind's eye failed to realize itself on Mizaistom's face yet again. "You know, maybe, if I view this as counterfeiting your face into someone more appealing, it’ll activate my Nen and your disguise will become impenetrable,” he said. He stood back and studied the results of what had been a nearly half hour long effort to try to contour Mizaistom into a whole different person. Evidently, the results weren't promising.

“I’ve checked,” said Mizaistom, clearing his throat of lingering traces of the powder he’d accidentally inhaled earlier. “You haven’t been using Nen.”

“That’s a shame,” said Zepile. He crossed his arms and frowned as he critiqued his handiwork. “Turns out I’m not great at painting faces. If there were someone you wanted to look like in particular, maybe I’d do better. Since, at the end of the day, you know I just copy. I don’t create from scratch.”

“That’s an idea,” said Mizaistom. He tried to peak around Zepile to the mirror to see if things were really as bad as Zepile’s reaction told him they were, but Zepile stepped sideways and blocked his view.

“Trust me, you don’t want to see this,” Zepile assured him while gesturing to Mizaistom’s overall face area. Mizaistom took Zepile's word for it and sat back. “At any rate,” Zepile continued as he finished adding a few generous spritzes of makeup remover to a damp cloth, “we’ll have to commit to a lot of makeup plus the time needed to apply it if the idea is to paint you into another person.”

“If it’s so much makeup that it makes me look like a clown, then it defeats the purpose,” said Mizaistom. Zepile handed him the cloth to wipe his face. Mizaistom took it and scrubbed his cheek once, tentatively. He grimaced at the sensation of layers of product smearing with every subsequent swipe. The cloth was used up almost instantly, but Zepile had a second prepared to hand over. He took back the first from Mizaistom, gingerly holding it between two pinched fingers, and tossed it directly into the trash.

“I don’t want to draw too much attention,” explained Mizaistom as he wiped away more makeup. The colors were getting more vibrant and unnatural as he neared his eyes. He wondered what exactly Zepile had been going for this time. “While my identity might be hidden beneath an extreme look, the eccentricity of it will give everyone something to stare at when I enter the room. If I stand out from the crowd, it'll be harder to do anything covert if the need arises.”

“You’re right,” said Zepile while preparing another cloth. “This isn’t Swaldani City. People don’t wear actual costumes in public.” 

Mizaistom accepted the third cloth and scrubbed his face hard to remove every last trace of lingering makeup. No matter how much he wiped off, there was always a dark patch on the cloth when he pulled it away to check. Zepile sighed watching him and took up a fourth and final cloth. He splashed it quickly with water, wrung it out, and then drenched it in several spritzes of makeup remover. Instead of handing it over like the others, he ordered Mizaistom to lift his chin.

“Being from York Shin is a good excuse to look ridiculous and call it fashion, but if you want to look normal, well, maybe if we stop at just getting rid of the black spot around your eye, you’ll be good,” said Zepile. He wiped away the smeared lines of makeup that had built up along Mizaistom’s hairline and moved on, down Mizaistom’s forehead. Mizaistom obediently shut his eyes without being asked so that Zepile could wipe around them and scrub his brows.

“You know, maybe,” said Zepile as he inspected Mizaistom’s face and turned his head to different angles make sure he’d got everything, “all we need is a simple pair of glasses, take away the hat, and—viola!—a new man.” He stopped, squinted his eyes, and scrubbed a little in the crease on the left side of Mizaistom’s nose. “I mean, you really do look totally different without your hat on. The hat makes your face look a lot wider. But, underneath all that you’re just a normal guy.”

“I was a runner up in the chairmen elections. Hunters can still recognize me without the hat, and there will definitely be Hunters present.”

“But you were wearing the bovine suit, too, right?” asked Zepile. He knew Mizaistom disagreed with him calling it a “cow suit” all the time, though “bovine” wasn’t that much better of an alternative.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, you more than anyone probably know that one benefit of wearing a costume all the time is that the moment you take the costume off, you’re unrecognizable. People know you more in a shorthand kind of way for your over-the-top, trademark features, not for your actual face.”

As he mentioned Mizaistom’s face, Zepile spied a line of foundation smeared across the edge of his beard. Mizaistom had inadvertently worsened it by wiping too hard and pushing it further into the hair. Zepile sighed and scrubbed at the spot a little. He considered wetting the tip of the cloth with his tongue, but stopped himself at the last moment and went to wet the cloth in the sink.

“Hunter’s are astute,” said Mizaistom as Zepile rinsed and wrung out the cloth a few times to clean it. Mizaistom could see himself in the mirror now, but it was only his regular face looking back with a few smudges at the edges. He inspected the hair along his jaw and chin and scratched at the foundation clumped between the strands. “Anyway, you can’t underestimate them.”

“You think I underestimate Hunters?” asked Zepile, scoffing. He took Mizaistom’s chin in his hand again and tilted his head up to see how far the line of makeup extended. Mizaistom grumbled at him for being so abrupt. “We aren't going to fool Hunters,” Zepile was saying, oblivious to Mizaistom’s discomfort. “If those people are keeping a good an eye on me, then they probably already know Fiammata is paying your company to protect me. Seeing you at the party just confirms that.”

The cloth Zepile used was warm, almost hot, when it met the delicate skin beneath Mizaistom’s jaw, causing Mizaistom to flinch and move away. Zepile, still holding his chin, yanked him back and scrubbed into his beard and under his chin with a lack of gentleness that annoyed Mizaistom, though he couldn’t say so with his mouth momentarily forced shut. He jerked away sharply once more as the cloth scrubbed back towards his neck, near his ear. Zepile rolled his eyes at him.

“You're damn ticklish. Hold still. There’s some of this stuff behind your right ear...somehow,” he said. He readjusted his grip on the warm cloth to catch it before it slipped from his hand.

“Have you got it all yet?” grumbled Mizaistom after a few seconds of scrubbing he deemed more than adequate to remove an odd smear of makeup. He didn’t know how much more of this he could put up with. For some reason, his mind had started wandering and considering whether or not Zepile was his type again. He was furious with himself for it, and blamed the whole awkward situation on Zepile’s total inability to apply makeup.

“It’s not coming off easily in this part because there wasn’t supposed to be makeup behind your ear in the first place,” said Zepile gruffly, reflecting Mizaistom’s own growing agitation back at him. Mizaistom sighed and relented, moving his head to the side in a silent show of cooperation. "We definitely aren’t going to disguise you with makeup. Forget it. This is too much of a pain.”

Suddenly, the scrubbing stopped and Zepile drew closer, turning Mizaistom’s earlobe around where Mizaistom was certain there wasn’t makeup any to clean.

“Whoa. I didn’t notice both your ears were pierced.”

Mizaistom knocked Zepile’s hand away and turned to give him a reproachful look. Zepile held up both hands and backed away. He tossed the cloth he’d been using into to the sink, signaling that he’d finished with the clean up.

“So much for my eye for detail,” said Zepile. “Never noticed you had two earrings.”

“I stopped wearing the right earring a few months ago. You've never seen it.”

“Ah,” said Zepile. He backed away a little more as Mizaistom stood and removed the towel Zepile had wrapped around his neck to protect his clothes. “Hey, if you want to look more like a cow, you should consider a septum piercing.”

Mizaistom frowned. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard such a suggestion. “It wasn’t to look like an ox that I pierced my ears.”

“Ah. So, it’s just your regular look, then, and the cow—I mean _ox_ —thing is a coincidence that came along later.”

“No. My Zodiac look and my ear piercings coincided, but for separate reasons. The Zodiac position influenced my choice to wear hooped earrings, though.”

“They do invoke more of a bovine feel.”

“Precisely.”

“More accurate might be ear tags, though.”

“Stop kidding around.”

Zepile grinned and left the bathroom laughing at his own joke. Mizaistom supposed it was a good sign. Though Zepile had always poked fun at him, the intention now was noticeably different from before, when the remarks had borne a clear, malicious edge. Mizaistom couldn’t really complain. He felt like it was his responsibility to go along with it, since he’d been the one to suggest the awkward plan of pretending to be Zepile’s date for the party. If Zepile had to deal with the tension by turning everything between them into a joke, then so be it.

Mizaistom stayed back alone in the bathroom. He splashed his face with water a few times and used a hand towel to dry off. When he pulled it away, it came back clean. At least Zepile had done a good job, even if it had taken forever. He emerged from the bathroom a minute later to see Zepile with a long case of glasses out and open on the bed. Mizaistom remembered something about only ready needing a pair of glasses and a change of clothes to pull off a disguise. Zepile was ready to test if that were true.

“If or when the other Hunters recognize you, they’ll come up to the same conclusion you did when you dreamed up this stupid plan,” said Zepile as he handed over different styles of glasses to Mizaistom to try on in mirror. He either nodded in approval or frowned and shook his head to help Mizaistom judge each pair. “You know, how you said that going as my date gives you more access than being a bodyguard, that it’s less suspicious than me inviting anyone else. I’m sure they’ll get it, that you’re just going undercover for work.”

“True,” admitted Mizaistom as he tried on a questionable pair of ultra-reflective green sunglasses. Wearing sunglasses indoors was hardly inconspicuous, even if the fad had come and gone somewhat regularly over the past decade. Leorio, who wore sunglasses all year despite the location or lighting conditions, could hardly be said to blend in because of it. Zepile shook his head and banished the sunglasses into the rejection pile after Mizaistom handed them back.

“Nen-users like to consider every angle. It goes without saying that they’ll definitely consider whether or not you're the Hunter I work for,” said Zepile. “They’d consider that even if they didn’t recognize you. Hell, they’ll consider that if even you don’t show up. They're probably considering it now. You’re a Hunter, and I know you, and that's it. But at the same time, if there’s more than one Hunter invited to this party, any of them are equally as likely to be who I’m working for as you are. You guys don’t trust each other, so really, everyone’s a suspect. If Kurapika knows who I am, he might even suspect Leorio, or Gon and Killua, or all three together. Killua for sure has underworld connections that might lead to a source on the Scarlet Eyes. The possibilities are endless. There’s a lot that can still throw a Hunter off, even if they recognize you at the party. So, that's why, in my opinion, we aren’t really tricking Hunters more as we’re just keeping normal people from figuring out who you are and getting suspicious or weird about it.”

Mizaistom nodded and accepted another pair of sunglasses. They’d reached the tinted frames section in the collection of costume eyewear Mizaistom had acquired. For the sake of being thorough, he was going to try on everything, but it was doubtful he’d select anything tinted in the end. He could use his En if his vision was dulled, but eyes, as a general rule, could see farther and more clearly than feeling a space out with aura alone.

“The important thing is you don’t act too stiff and awkward,” said Zepile. “We might not fool Hunters, but we’re going to have to fool all the regular people. And, since you came up with this plan, I’m seriously hoping you’ve gone undercover before and can handle it.”

“I’ve gone undercover before,” Mizaistom assured him. “Although, it’s true my recent experience has mostly been me working alone, or else directing a mission as a team leader. My current, public role in both my company and the Association isn’t conducive to espionage or secrecy.”

“Well, at least you have something. It’s a first for me,” said Zepile. Mizaistom grunted incredulously. “Okay. I mean more or less,” Zepile clarified. “I don’t do complicated, sustained roles. When it comes to outright acting, I’ve pretended to be married to a woman I knew to strengthen the provenance of a counterfeit item I was trying to sell. But, pretending to walk into a shop with your fake wife to pawn off a vase is totally different from attending a party with a man you’re dating. Still, I think I can do it. It’s you I’m worried about.” 

“Me?”

“No offense, but, do Hunters even date?” asked Zepile. Mizaistom frowned at him, offended by his tone. “I can’t think of a single Hunter who’s famously married or anything. Can’t even think of anyone who’s famous for being a Hunter’s kid, either. There’s only Gon, really. When you meet him and you hear him say his dad is a Hunter, you’re kinda stunned by it. You kinda can’t believe it, because you kinda can’t believe a Hunter would ever have a kid.”

Mizaistom took a deep, weary breath. “I must admit, I know that feeling, but from the other side.”

“Oh yeah. You know Gon’s dad personally. Leorio punched him.”

“Leorio is also supposed to replace him.”

“Yeah.”

Zepile remembered a bit late to shake his head in an absolute “no” for the current pair of sunglasses Mizaistom was wearing. He scrambled for the next pair to hand over while Mizaistom waited.

“So, do you know what you’re doing when it comes to dating, or am I going to have to take the lead?” asked Zepile. Mizaistom was unnerved by how confident Zepile sounded in his conviction that Mizaistom must be socially inept.

“I know how to date,” said Mizaistom. “I’ve dated.”

“Ah, okay. Well, then, let me take the lead anyway.”

Mizaistom frowned as he slipped on a pair sunglasses and hid the incriminating look of concern in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You’re going to the party on my invitation, so, I get to direct how everything goes. You’re my date. It’s more natural that way.”

“We’re each other’s date,” insisted Mizaistom. “We’ll do everything equally.”

“No,” said Zepile. His suddeness alarmed Mizaistom and made him uneasy. Zepile forgot the glasses he was holding and sat forward with the obnoxious energy of a pushy salesman ready to pressure Mizaistom into a purchase he didn’t entirely want to make. 

“Like, for example,” said Zepile, “if we dance, I lead. If your drink runs out, I get you another. When we meet people, I introduce you. My arm gets to be the arm around you when we have to stand close. If we have to kiss for whatever reason, I initiate it. You are there with me; I am not there following along after you. This needs to be established before we even walk through the door.”

Mizaistom fumbled and dropped the final pair of sunglasses Zepile had snatched up from the bed and handed over while speaking. The heavy frames hit the floor with a clunk, both earpieces swinging shut on impact. Mizaistom knelt to scoop them up before Zepile could hop down from the bed to help him. 

“I mean,” said Mizaistom as he bent down, “well, obviously yes, you’ll have to introduce me to people, but all those other things….” He hesitated as he straightened and brushed off the knees of his pants. “Those all can be shared, I believe.”

“If we share them it’ll be awkward, because in reality we aren’t actually dating, so, we don’t actually have a sense for how to split that stuff up naturally between us, because we actually never do that stuff between us,” said Zepile. He plucked up a rejected pair of glasses and lazily swung them around in a circle by their earpiece as he explained. “Imagine the extent of the awkwardness here. We’re going to be pausing a lot to make sure what we want to do is okay with the other guy beforehand, and it’s going to be a mess. Lots of false starts and conflicts. So, just let me be in charge. Things will go much smoother, and if anyone asks, I’ll say we met recently. That’ll explain how awkward you are and how much I’m trying maybe a little too hard to impress you by inviting you to attend a big fancy party with me.”

“Why are you so convinced I’ll be the one making things awkward in that scenario?” asked Mizaistom. He case a long side-glance, invisible under a pair of bug-eyed, blue shades.

“I’m just being realistic about the roles we’re going to have to decide on going in. We can’t just show up acting like boyfriends who’ve never met. People will think I’m weird for inviting a guy I seem to hardly know, and believe me, that will definitely be suspicious. Not to mention humiliating.”

Zepile got up from the bed. He joined Mizaistom in front of the full-length dressing mirror, and Mizaistom stepped aside and feigned making small adjustments to the lay of his shirt cuffs as an excuse for the distance he was maintaining. Zepile, oblivious, attempted to straighten out the two long, uncombed tails of hair on either side of his face into passable points. He gave up and crossed his arms, calmly surveying the image he and Mizaistom made standing side-by-side. Reluctantly, Mizaistom stopped fiddling uselessly with his sleeves and straightened up to stand at full height.

“You being taller than me probably rules out us dancing without looking awkward. Do you even know how to dance?”

“I know some basic steps.”

“Fine, then. You can lead if we have to dance. It’ll be hard for me to see where we’re going around your shoulders anyway.”

Mizaistom brought his hands back up to button and unbutton a cuff for no reason at all. “We won’t have to have to dance,” he said, shrugging. “That’s not a common thing people do anymore at parties.”

“Fulmineo loves dancing. He’ll make it happen. He keeps chuckling and telling me to bring my dancing shoes and a ‘can-do’ attitude. Except, he called it a ‘can-can-do’ attitude. I’m really hoping he wasn’t being literal.”

“The can-can is an extremely physically demanding dance. It isn’t something he could make an entire party do on a lark.”

“Go to know,” said Zepile. He moved closer to Mizaistom, pulling Mizaistom back when Mizaistom automatically stepped aside to maintain the distance between them. He held Mizaistom firmly in place and looked to the mirror, putting on a cheesy grin and nudging Mizaistom to do the same. 

“Lighten up,” ordered Zepile. “Look happy to be here. We need coordinating levels of enthusiasm. It doesn’t have to be equal, but I’m not going to grin like an idiot if you just frown and cross your arms the whole time. Look like you like me at least.”

Mizaistom self-consciously uncrossed his arms just as they were coming together over his chest and stood up straight. He tried to relax his stance, shifting his balance from one leg to the other and loosening his shoulders. Gradually, he came to realize how difficult it was to look cool and composed when one was forcing it. Zepile made the act look too easy. 

“I guess I’ll just dial it down a notch on my end,” muttered Zepile, unimpressed. His wide, cheesy grin snapped shut to a closed-lip smile. Mizaistom preferred this expression, since it looked far less put on. His own posture relaxed as well until the two of them finally approached something close to comfortable in one another’s presence. Zepile rested an elbow on Mizaistom’s shoulder to create a casual, cocky lean that broadcasted a subtle message to all those in their vicinity that Mizaistom was undoubtably with him.

“See?” said Zepile. “Me taking the lead just looks right, doesn’t it?”

“It’s really the same to me,” said Mizaistom, feeling the pressure of Zepile’s arm on his shoulder pushing him down. Zepile wasn’t that heavy, but Mizaistom was uncomfortable enough that it didn’t matter how much Zepile weighed. The weight itself wasn’t the uncomfortable part. “I don’t really see the difference.”

“You probably can’t see because you still have those huge, stupid sunglasses on,” said Zepile. He reached up to pull them off Mizaistom’s face with his free hand. Mizaistom shut his eyes and let him, even shaking his head lightly to help loosen the grip of the earpieces against the sides of his head.

“Anyway, we should be okay if you’re fine with me this close to you,” said Zepile. He finally stopped leaning on Mizaistom and pulled the sunglasses free using both hands. He returned to the bedside to put the pair in the rejected pile and sat down. The pile collapsed and tumbled towards him as the mattress sank, but he swung down an arm to separate the rejects from the approved pile before they began to tumble into each other and mingle. With a groan, he pushed the rejects much farther to the side and sat back up. Resting his chin in his hand, he studied the pile of approved glasses, ready to make a final choice. 

“Also, honestly?” said Zepile, scratching his chin. “I’m sort of impressed. I thought you might be biting off more than you could chew with this plan to go as my date, and that you’d make it really weird there the second I got near you. But, you seem to handle it okay.”

“This sort of thing doesn’t bother me as much as you're somehow assuming it would.”

“Really?” asked Zepile with a small, ingratiating laugh. “Are you an expert, then? Are you maybe as bad as Leorio, always getting girls and then losing them every few weeks? He’s kind of a mess.”

“No. Of course not.”

“No. Of course not,” echoed Zepile. “No. You’re too serious for that brazen behavior. I have to keep that seriousness in mind while we’re together. As the leader of this date, I’m not going to push for any physical closeness more than a hand on your arm or shoulder, or an arm around your waist. We have no good reason to get any closer than that in public, really. More intimate displays of affection shouldn’t be necessary. It’s not a nightclub.”

“You can’t be sure,” said Mizaistom. Zepile began to laugh, but stopped. The expression on Mizaistom’s face made it clear Mizaistom wasn’t joking. “I’ve experienced situations where I’ve had to show a marked level of affection towards my accomplice while undercover. I’m more comfortable with it than you are.”

“And yet, a ‘marked level of affection’ is how you describe it?” asked Zepile. “Seriously?” He snorted with laughter as he picked up a thick, black-framed pair of glasses and turned them over in his hands. He decided against them after noting they were too likely to evoke the image of the black spot Mizaistom usually had around his left eye. After tossing them back down, he rummaged for a slimmer pair with a similar angular shape. 

“You’re the one who's more uncomfortable,” said Mizaistom. Zepile hesitated as he searched. “Worryingly so. I think you’re projecting that onto me.”

“ _You_ can’t even say ‘kiss’,” said Zepile without looking over. “That’s not reassuring. But don’t worry. Like I said, I’ll go in for a kiss if I have to. You just follow my lead.”

“I’m under the impression you’ll try your hardest not to lead in that particular direction even if it somehow became necessary. You'll actively steer against it, in fact, which is worse.”

“Hey, now. It’s not that I’ll be trying not to. It’s just more that I’m very sure it won’t be a problem. People aren’t realistically going to expect us to like, make-out in a corner or something. This party’s going to be a lot classier than that. Think about my reputation.”

“Zepile,” chided Mizaistom. Zepile didn’t look up from the pile of glasses. “Ideally, if you're inviting me to this party, we’ve dated before, which means we're attracted to one another, which means kissing shouldn’t be something you dread and avoid. Of course, I’m not going to spring anything on you unexpectedly, and we won't have to constantly cling to one another, but also, I don’t want you to blow your cover at the party by making it clear you don’t want me anywhere near you despite having invited me along, because you’re afraid a kiss might come up.”

Zepile scoffed. “How would that even come up?" he asked. "I’m not even that clingy drunk. In fact, you’ve seen me drink. What about that state makes you think I’d kiss anyone? If anything, I become a huge ass. And, I’m not planning to embarrass myself drinking at the party anyway. There’s a mission at stake.”

“But at some point, we might need to step away from the main party.”

Zepile frowned. “For...what?”

“Logistics meeting. Reconnaissance. Any private communication. One convenient aspect of arriving as each other’s date to a party is that we have a built-in excuse to cut away from the main group at any time and wander off alone. It’s a valid reason.”

“Valid, but not classy.”

“It’s effective. Just remind yourself you’ll probably never meet anyone at this party ever again. Having the utmost class isn’t a priority.”

Zepile pursed his lips and didn’t say a word. His hand reached up and passed lightly over his shirt pocket, but his cigarettes were in the drawer of the bedside table. He wouldn’t have smoked one regardless. Cigarettes were just something he like to reach for as part of his response to situations or people he wished to escape. They were a good excuse to leave a room or fall out of a conversation he didn’t want to have.

“If we’re supposed to kiss as if we’ve kissed before, then I guess what you’re trying to ask me to do is kiss you now so you know what to expect, right?” asked Zepile. He was sorting through pairs of glasses with increased vigor, setting the ones with thick frames into the rejection pile. Mizaistom didn’t blush at the accusatory tone of the question, but he did need to look away. He couldn’t decide what face to show, so, he went with mild aversion.

“Don’t look so doubtful about it, you idiot,” said Zepile, laughing uncomfortably. “That hurts my feelings.”

“It wasn’t my intention to do this, but, if you’re not just kidding around, then come here.”

Zepile let the two pairs of glasses he was holding slip from his hands. He looked up and caught Mizaistom’s eye. Mizaistom coldly beckoned him over, and, dragging his feet like a child, Zepile got up to rejoin Mizaistom in front of the mirror.

“Do your worst,” said Zepile, burying his hands in his pocket as he spun on his heel to face Mizaistom. “So I’ll know how low to set the bar.”

Mizaistom ignored the smart remark. He couldn’t shake the memory of how Zepile had stammered at him for almost five whole minutes before he’d finally agreed to bring Mizaistom along to the Bagliore party as his date in the first place. The initial reluctance caused Mizaistom to expect Zepile to pull away or resist without thinking as Mizaistom leaned in, but to Mizaistom’s surprise, Zepile didn't go anywhere. A moment later, Mizaistom nearly fell over from shock when Zepile reached up and deepened the kiss, pulling Mizaistom further down towards him by the open collar of his shirt and pressing hard into him. Mizaistom yanked Zepile’s hands off his shirt and shoved the two of them apart. He heard Zepile starting to laugh as he backed away from Mizaistom and stumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was watching Mizaistom with a look of challenge in his eyes, daring him to retaliate.

“You’re not too great at following my lead,” said Zepile, the curl of a sneer at the corner of his mouth. “Not promising, Mizaistom.”

“Try to be serious for once,” said Mizaistom, gritting his teeth. Zepile laughed at him and went back to the bed.

“Oh well,” said Zepile as he sat down. “I’m really not much of an actor.”

“You once pretended to be married to a woman you weren’t in order to rob people. You certainly found it in you to act then.”

“Well, yeah, but that was more a lie than acting. As an accomplice, my friend didn’t have to say or do much. I gave her a pretty big cut just to stand there and agree with me and pretend to remind me of details.”

“And how was that any different?”

“Because it was a situation I knew with very clear rules. I was just selling something. The lie helped make the sale, but it was a tactic, nothing more than that,” said Zepile. Unexpectedly, he sighed. He stopped sorting glasses and stared down at the bedspread, becoming serious, almost grave. 

“This is very different,” said Zepile much more softly. “I’ve never strolled up to a party full of flesh collectors and trigger-happy Hunters with a date in tow who I barely know and who just so happens to be _yet another Hunter_. Feels like I’m walking into a standoff. Feels like somewhere I really don’t want to be.”

“I understand that."

“Sure you do.”

Zepile picked up the case for the glasses and started putting them away. He apologized offhandedly for not remembering their original order, but Mizaistom said there hadn’t been one. Outside in the hall someone was talking loudly into their phone and pulling a thundering, obstinate suitcase behind them. The rumble of the person’s voice cut by the suitcase’s sticking wheels filtered into the room though the door. It eclipsed the softer plastic taps and clicks of glasses being set securely into place on the felt-covered board inside the case.

“Concerning Hunters, I only know Linsen’s attending the party for certain,” said Mizaistom. “But, I have lists of every Hunter who works for the Nostrade family, every Hunter who operates in and around Baleno City, and every Hunter with documented mafia connections worldwide. It's safe to say I have a good chance of recognizing anyone who’s at the party, so, any chance of a surprise attack you’d get caught in the middle of is minimal. My guard will be up the entire evening.”

“What about non-Hunters who use Nen?”

Mizaistom was quick to dismiss such a concern. “Knowledge of Nen is restricted. It’s unlikely anyone would simply know how to use it by their own means,” he explained. “The most powerful mafia employed Nen-users, the Shadow Beasts, were dispatched by the Phantom Troupe in York Shin over a year ago. But, even if the Shadow Beasts were reinstated with new members today, and they all miraculously showed up to the Bagliore party, at their level they’d pose minimal threat to a certified Hunter.”

“What if one of the guests knows Nen?”

“Highly unlikely, particularly in this region.”

“Maybe they’re a genius?”

“Geniuses rarely develop martial abilities if combat isn’t already a part of their occupation or lifestyle. Most Geniuses develop more like you did. They get very good at very specific skills or talents, but can’t use Nen for anything else unless they’re trained.”

Mizaistom was surprised when Zepile, instead of being reassured by his answers, let out a petulant huff and shook his head. The glasses were all put away now. He held out a pair he’d kept apart, and Mizaistom accepted them, but didn’t put them on.

“Do you suspect any of the Bagliore family’s friends to be Nen-users?” asked Mizaistom. Zepile shrugged. “Which do you suspect? I’ll include them in my list. If you can describe the ability, and how you believe it was used, that’ll also be helpful.”

“I don’t know,” said Zepile, making a face. He grabbed the back of his neck as he considered what to say. “I think maybe I just find these flesh collector’s creepy, so, it’s easy to imagine they have something extra inhuman about them. Something supernatural. Just forget about it. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen any of them use special powers or anything.”

“Are you certain?”

Zepile shrugged again, this time with deliberate slowness meant to make it clear that he wouldn’t have been shrugging so much already if he were actually certain of anything. Mizaistom grew thoughtful. It was typical that a non-user, after learning about the existence of Nen, started suspecting it everywhere. Nen was too ambiguous of a power to know for certain if one couldn't use Gyo on their eyes. It was likely Zepile was falling into the same classic paranoia, seeing the supernatural and threatening in circumstances that were merely strange or upsetting to him.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be all that surprising if Fiammata Bagliore could detect Nen,” suggested Mizaistom, trying to sound helpful. “I’ll look into it.”

“That’ll be good,” said Zepile. He nodded to the glasses resting idly in Mizaistom’s hand. “Try those on one more time to see if they need to be adjusted or something. It’ll be too obvious they’re fake if they don’t fit right.”

Mizaistom perched the glasses in place on his nose and stared at himself the mirror. Zepile asked him how the frames felt, if they were tight enough or if they pinched. He suggested Mizaistom keep them on for an hour or two to get a true feel for them. They had to look like something Mizaistom wore every day. He couldn’t simply slip them off in the middle of the party if they got to be too uncomfortable.

“As you can see, all of this is more complicated that showing up and just calling yourself my date,” said Zepile. At last, he broke into a wry smile and returned more to his usual self. “You can’t even throw a random pair of glasses on and call it a disguise without getting accustomed to wearing them first. The whole picture has to look natural. You have to get used to it, or it’s just going to distract you.”

“What’s your point?” asked Mizaistom, using the glasses to full effect as he glanced over them incredulously.

“My point is let me take the lead like I said earlier. I wasn’t kidding. It’s probably the only way I can pull this off. I’m a decent liar when it’s a one-off thing, but I’m not a great actor, because acting is like lying with persistence. I'm a sprinter, and this is a marathon. Do you understand what I'm saying?” 

“I already told you it’s the same to me whether you lead or not.”

“But I want you to say ‘yes, Zepile, be in charge of the date’, and not just passively insist it’s fine either way.”

“I’ll follow your lead,” said Mizaistom. “Okay? Is that it?”

“Terrific,” said Zepile. He shot Mizaistom a quick, joking thumbs up. “Our chance of absolute failure just diminished by half.”

Mizaistom adjusted the glasses that had begun to slip down his nose. He hid is his face, fighting back an upsurge in the sorts of thoughts that threatened to lead him into not only considering Zepile as a date, but now as an active pursuer of Mizaistom himself. It was dangerous, getting mixed up with someone who insisted on control of the entire dating experience while also having the gall to kiss Mizaistom too strongly for the sake of a joke. 

“Maybe we should put those little squishy pads on the sides of the nose part so it sits more snug and stops slipping so much,” said Zepile. Mizaistom heard the zip of a bag being opened. “Constantly adjusting your glasses will make you look too nervous, like you’re sweating.”

Mizaistom cleared his throat. “They're slipping a lot. It’s probably the moisturizer I had to put on after all those chemicals to take the makeup off,” he said. He pulled the glasses off and tossed them over towards Zepile as he escaped to the bathroom. “Excuse me.”

Mizaistom didn’t wait to hear Zepile’s thoughtful sound of agreement before the door shut behind him. He looked at himself in the mirror, trying to collect himself, and offhandedly decided that maybe, just maybe, the whole reason Zepile thought Mizaistom was socially awkward was because it was Zepile himself who made him that way.

Instantly, he regretted the thought.


	17. Shop

Though it opened at ten, the antique shop was normally devoid of customers until much later in the morning. Zepile had taken advantage of this and commandeered one of the dining room sets on the sales floor to use as a makeshift office. For the past fifteen minutes, he’d been going over a list of items the dealer had agreed to purchase. He lingered as he worked, hoping to convince her to spring for more while he arranged the delivery and payment details. 

Zepile was framing his pitch humorously as a “going out of business sale”. He was nearing the end of his stay in Baleno City, and was sure the dealer had been holding out, hoping the last minute would get her the best prices. Though Zepile had run a hard bargain with the histology slides when they’d first met, the trinkets and curios he had left in his stock weren’t the sorts of items he felt bad about marking down. Everything must go, he insisted, and he’d offer the entire lot for a steep discount if she’d just take it all off his hands before he left town.

The dealer said she’d consider it, but hadn’t made any offers. She’d been more interested in discussing the new, smuggled shipments that’d arrived to her shop from Zepile’s foreign clients in York Shin. She didn’t like that Zepile wasn’t enthusiastic about selling the items himself, as he’d done with the book bound in human flesh. Instead, he’d offered to sell all of these items to her, as well. The dealer was eager to have them, but she still wanted Zepile to do the work of meeting with buyers. She’d offered him a larger cut of the profits, but money hadn't been enough to sway him, and she hadn't known what else he could possibly want. Since then, the dealer hadn’t stopped bringing the matter up, trying to nudge Zepile towards selling for her, while at the same time trying to figure out the source of his newfound aversion in hopes exploiting it.

“There’s a buyer for the human vellum in Lucio, which is only five hours away by train. You can make it there and back in a day. Plus, they’ve got a famous beach.”

Zepile frowned at the papers he'd set apart from the documentation for the items the dealer had already agreed to buy. He'd be delivering them to her later that afternoon, and everything had to be in order. “Why would I want to see a beach in December?” he asked. “I already said I’d sell you the human vellum at a discount. If you have a buyer in Lucio, you can go to Lucio and sell the vellum yourself. I don’t have time.”

“Oh, then it’s true, right?" asked the dealer, her face lighting up. "You’re getting along so well with the Bagliore family you don’t need commissions anymore. Is that it? Wow. You move up fast in the world.”

Zepile shrugged. The dealer had already accused him of social climbing the previous evening when he’d turned down the chance to sell a set of antique apothecary vessels, one still half full of medicinal mummy powder and the other containing the crystallized residue of honey supposedly drawn from the coffin of a mellified man. 

“I’m just busy with work here in town. I can’t afford to take a day trip. Five hours is a lot.”

“Are you sure the Bagliores aren’t interested in human vellum? Have you tried asking them?” asked the dealer. Zepile shook his head. “Well, if you’re close, you can get top dollar. People like them don’t even look at the price, especially if they already like you. You can charge them something outrageous, and they won’t even care. They'll put themselves in your hands completely.”

“They will,” agreed Zepile, “but if I cheat them, I'll probably end up mounted on the wall in some hallway as a warning.”

“Oh. So you’ve heard about that, then.”

“Heard what?”

“That the Nostrade family used to do that.”

“What?”

The dealer rolled her eyes at him. “Mount people to the walls as a warning." She paused. "...And as a decoration.”

Zepile cringed. He reached for a stack of papers a slipped them into a folder designated for miscellaneous bone items. He felt sick. 

“I’ll keep that in mind if I do business with the Nostrades,” he said, trying and failing not to imagine what he’d look like mounted on a wall. He'd seen plenty of sets of lifelike mounted human remains in the Hunter Association’s vaults. There were upsettingly few boxes that could fit such items, coffins included, since natural dead people tended to lay flat. Collectables were posed, dynamic, grotesque. 

“I hear they’ve chilled out since the underground auction fiasco in York Shin," said Zepile after clearing his throat several times. "I hope I heard that right.”

“You know about the Nostrades’ problems in York Shin?”

“Of course. I was around. I make it a point to attend the York Shin Auctions every year. It’s the high point of the season for us antiques traders.”

The dealer nodded. Many of Zepile’s clients were indeed based in York Shin. “I’ve never been,” she said, “but there’s always an influx of merchandise right after. I’ve been toying around with the idea of sending a representative sometime....”

“I’m not interested.”

The dealer laughed. “Well, if you know anyone who might be….”

“We’ll see. I wouldn’t hold my breath, though.”

The dealer lifted her hands in surrender, promising she wouldn’t expect anything, that it was fine if Zepile couldn’t find someone. Zepile eyed her warily and continued putting away the paperwork.

“The vellum might just sell without going all the way to Lucio anyway,” said the dealer as she busied herself straightening out scattered items on the back counter. She was trying to look nonchalant, like Zepile's refusal to help didn't affect her so much. In reality, she was frustrated growing on furious. “I’ve had three people interested in it so far. Seems like a popular item.

“Three already?” asked Zepile in genuine amazement. “You haven’t even had it a week.”

“The Lucio offers seems like it’s going to be the most lucrative, though.”

“What were the other offers?”

“You won’t like the first one.”

Zepile froze. “What do you mean?”

“It was a Nostrade henchman.” 

Zepile's jaw clenched as he swallowed. Fortunately, the dealer wasn't watching him, though his eyes were fixed on her. “Why wouldn’t I like that?” he asked. 

“Because I could tell he wasn’t going to buy the item the moment we got to talking. He was a lot more interested in hearing about where and how I got it. In short, he wanted info from me, not a sale.”

Zepile’s face darkened. “Did he want to know about me or about my source?”

“I’m pretty sure it was you he wanted.”

“Shit,” muttered Zepile. It was better not to lie and act like he had no idea who it might’ve been. He wanted confirmation now, subtly be damned. “What did the person look like?" he asked with a sigh. "A man? Gaunt? Black bowl cut?”

“His name was Linsen.”

“Shit,” he said again. The dealer smirked.

“I take it you know him?”

“We’ve met.”

“So, the Nostrades want you for something, then?” asked the dealer. She leaned forward over the counter, intrigued and lowering her voice in a conspiratorial tone. “Does that mean your offer for Scarlet Eyes was real?”

“Of course it was real,” said Zepile defensively. “I wouldn’t just make that up. It's always been real.”

“Ah, then I suppose I can see now why all these big families are getting involved with you so soon,” said the dealer. She nodded her head a few times slowly as if taking stock of the full realization as it dawned on her. “You must already know some big fish to have a legitimate lead on Scarlet Eyes. And here I took you for an average antique trader helping his friend. I wonder what you’re really involved in.” 

The dealer’s voice had gone even lower, verging on a threat that was only half joking. Zepile cleared his throat dryly and looked into the case of papers he’d already finished putting away. 

“However,” the dealer continued, pushing herself off the counter and taking a step back, “experience has taught me it’s better to keep my head down and not ask too many questions. Knowledge can be a liability when dealing with these big families, mafia or otherwise.”

Zepile let out a sigh of relief and snapped the document case shut. 

“And your second offer for the vellum?” asked Zepile. “Who was that? Do you know?”

“Someone else I’ve never worked with. I haven’t met them yet. The Nostrade family henchman didn’t tell me he was with the Nostrades until after he arrived, and the second offer is equally as vague and mysterious. Still, vague and mysterious is how things tend to work in this market.”

“When will you meet them?” asked Zepile. He wondered if there were a way to involved Mizaistom without incriminating himself. If this person was likewise interested in Zepile more than in the vellum, then it might be important Mizaistom figure out who it could be. The problem was, no matter how much he wrecked his brain, Zepile couldn't figure out how to frame it. Mizaistom would want to know what Zepile had to do with illegal human vellum sales in the first place.

“As a matter of fact, they were supposed to arrive a half hour ago, but something came up and they're running late.”

Zepile’s eyes widened. “I should probably clear out,” he said, glancing around the shop as if expecting an sudden attack. “If it’s a repeat of the Nostrade guy, I don’t want to be caught hanging around here when whoever it is comes looking for me.”

Without waiting for the dealer to say anything, Zepile tucked the case under his arm and brought the pertinent documents over to the counter where she was waiting to double check her order and tally up the price.

“I think I’ll go pick up your items, then,” he said once she'd finished a quick scan and nodded in approval. “There should be plenty of time for your meeting while I'm away, I think. Hopefully the client doesn’t run any later. If they’ve got manners, they should reschedule if it gets to be more than an hour. Waiting around is no way to run a business.”

“It is not,” the dealer agreed emphatically and side-eyed the shop phone. "I guess I'm not exactly going anywhere, though. I can wait." Zepile wished her luck with the sale and then all but flew from the shop, springing for a taxi when he reached the main street to save himself the ten minutes walk to the bus stop. He directed the driver to the storage facility where he was keeping the last of his sale stock.

It occurred to Zepile too late on the drive across town that the person visiting might just be Kurapika. He swore silently at himself for running, for potentially missing an opportunity to wrap up the mission once and for all. If he met Kurapika now, he wouldn’t have to attend the upcoming party and experience the absolute awkwardness and misery of pretending to date Mizaistom. He was dreading that experience more than he wanted to admit, and it wasn't just for his fear of Hunters and Nen. If there were a way out, he’d take it in a heartbeat, but unfortunately, there was no guarantee it’d be Kurapika visiting the shop today. He sighed and chalked the whole idea up to wistful thinking, telling himself the visitor was far more likely to be someone he wouldn't want to meet and shouldn't.

As quickly as Zepile's hopes had risen, they plummeted, and he felt worse than ever. He hadn’t mentioned it to Mizaistom, because he hadn’t wanted to seem unreliable or weird, but the truth was, since he traveled so much for work, Zepile hadn’t formally dated anyone in years, and he hated the idea of having to pretend to do so now. It was why he feared it would be awkward if he weren’t the one taking the lead and setting the pace. Acting like a couple who’d been together for more than two tentative dates, with an actual rapport between them derived from genuine interest and familiarity, was virtually a foreign concept to Zepile at this point. Instead, what he was a somewhat unintentional master of were the first few steps in getting to know someone and trying to impress them, before ultimately failing at the relationship in some way or another that killed it before it truly got off the ground. With Mizaistom, Zepile needed to set the tone from the start and put himself in the higher position, because attempting to impress a date he was only just starting to get to know was woefully easy. Dating them mutually with an understanding that they were both equally interested in each other was a goddamn unobtainable dream.

Zepile sat down and made himself comfortable in the small, closet-sized storage unit he'd recently downgraded to for his remaining stock. He took his time sorting through items and diligently re-inspecting each piece listed in the dealer's order. He went as far as to remove a small magnifying lens from his pocket to squint down at every minute detail with the meticulousness of a jeweler inspecting the quality of his gems. While he was there, he decided to examine everything else on hand, too. Once he finished the current order, he'd have seven items left. It was important he know each piece well so he could market it perfectly.

After committing well over an hour to an inspection that should’ve taken less than half the amount of time, there wasn’t much left for Zepile to look for. Plus, all the squinting was giving him a headache. With a weary groan, he grabbed the box he'd brought along from the shop and moved on to the painstaking process of wrapping each item for transport and setting them inside. Several attempts were needed to get everything tucked away just right. Even with all finicky adjustments and extra car, it didn't take him more than twenty minutes.

Not counting his twenty-minute trip over to the storage facility, Zepile ended up squandering a little over two full, excruciatingly slow hours of his life on the normally much more straightforward task of collecting items to deliver to a buyer. He took another thirty minutes on a whim to sort out all the emails piled up in the inbox of his phone. At last, three hours since he’d walked through the door of the storage unit, Zepile emerged bleary-eyed and head aching. He moved slow, pretending it was more careful, with a box of items cradled in his arms.

If he were stupid, Zepile could’ve wasted more time on an hour and fifteen minute minute bus trip to return to the shop. The items he was carrying, however, were worth too much to risk it. Instead, he’d called another taxi. It was waiting along the curb nearby for him as he stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“There was a delay, but, everything is here and accounted for,” said Zepile twenty minutes later as he set the box onto the counter of the shop. He’d nearly dropped it in alarm when he’d entered and a person he hadn’t noticed jostled a tea set loudly nearby. The person, a patron of the shop, apologized to him. Zepile couldn’t tell if it was for so visibly startling him, or for nearly wrecking the shop’s wares. In any case, the person had departed soon after in embarrassment, and now, it was only Zepile and the dealer in the shop. She was just coming out from the back storeroom as Zepile set the box on the counter.

“If you don’t watch out, people will steal from you,” warned Zepile, inclining his head back towards the vacant shop, “or break something without you catching it.”

“Did something break?” asked the dealer, concerned and glancing past Zepile with a frown. Zepile shook his head and she relaxed. He reached to open the box for her with a dramatic flourish so that she could see her purchased items, check that everything was indeed there, and make her final payment. Zepile rocked back and forth on he heels impatiently as he waited. Though it’d been over three hours since the supposed buyer for the human vellum had missed their scheduled appointment, he felt uneasy hanging around the shop any longer than necessary.

“I don’t remember the framed hair embroidery,” said the dealer, lifting the item out of the box carefully and observing it in the light of a nearby lamp.

“I threw that in as a little something extra,” said Zepile. “Seriously. At this point I’m literally just giving this stuff away.”

The dealer laughed and continued to remove the rest of the items and set them on the counter. Zepile commented on a few, pointing out some of their best points while also reminding her of a few of the larger flaws she should already know about, so that she couldn’t come back around later telling him he’d sold her some thing they hadn’t agreed upon. He was drawing her attention to the remarkable craftsmanship used to set the mother-of-pearl inlays on a bone comb when he caught the sound of muffled cough from the rooms at the back of the shop and froze.

“You have a customer?” he asked quietly through nearly pursed lips.

“Ah, yes, don’t worry about it,” said the dealer. She reached to take the comb back from him, but Zepile recoiled, pulling it out of her reach.

“Not _the_ customer,” he said, watching her face intently for a reaction, since he couldn’t trust anything she said. The dealer grimaced and nodded. Absently, Zepile handed her the comb back, since it was hers, and also because his hands had begun to tremble, and he was liable to drop it.

“Anyway, you’ve paid, and everything’s here,” said Zepile, keeping his voice down, though no longer whispering. “It’s been a pleasure doing business, and I’ll hopefully see you later this week if you decide to buy anything else off of me. Everything must go, you know. Anyway! Good day.”

Zepile snatched up his bag and spun around to leave, but stopped dead in his tracks a moment later at the sound of a familiar voice calling to him.

“It’s a bit late to slink out the door, Zepile.”

Zepile wasn’t sure which would’ve been worse in that moment, being cornered by another potential Linsen who’d actually follow through on a threat to torture information out of him about Scarlet Eyes, or the inescapable reality of who the person behind him actually was: Mizaistom Nana. 

Zepile winced and sucked in a breath before turning back around to face the man, who was for once dressed in a suit rather than the cow patterned ensemble Zepile knew him best in. He darkened the doorway just behind the dealer, seemingly taller and broader that Zepile remembered. Was that to do with Nen, he wondered, or was it just his own imagination magnifying the threat? With the thought of Nen, all hope Zepile might've harbored of making a run for it disappeared. Who was he to outrun a Hunter? He probably wouldn't even make it to the door.

“Well, hi,” said Zepile with a pained smile as he nervously grabbed the back of his neck and looked at Mizaistom. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“He’s been hanging around for two hours waiting for you to get back,” said the dealer. She turned to Mizaistom and shook her head. “I told you, wait in the back, and I bring him to you. You really blew it coughing. If he bolts now, I’m not chasing him for you.”

“He won’t run,” said Mizaistom matter-of-factly. The dealer started saying something else, something about how she didn’t want her shop messed up, so Mizaistom better hurry, but Mizaistom paid her no mind. He stared Zepile down with an unreadable expression that kept Zepile planted where he stood. Defending himself, running, or delaying the inevitable by wrecking the shop weren't going to help. They wouldn't even make him feel better. Zepile knew he was caught. Unable to bear the intense, emotionless stare directed at him, he looked away first, off to the side of the room. He hung his head and waited for Mizaistom to pronounce judgment.


	18. Think

The dealer had the nerve to let out a sigh of relief when Mizaistom told Zepile they’d have a talk somewhere other than the shop. It was a good thing, she said, looking at Zepile, that the mysterious buyer hadn’t been lying about knowing him and meaning him no harm. Zepile snapped back at her she didn’t know that. She was only happy nothing would go down in her shop. She didn't know anything at all about what "the mysterious buyer" might do.

While they argued, Mizaistom crossed the room. He stood stoically at the exit with his arms folded over his chest and ordered Zepile to hurry up and follow him. Zepile and the dealer could talk later, but right now, he and Zepile had more important things to discuss.

“At this rate, your third offer for the vellum in Lucio might as well be an assassin,” said Zepile back to the dealer as he turned to go. He stopped after a few steps and went the counter. The dealer backed away, but warned him he couldn’t take the items she’d already paid for. Zepile plucked the framed hair embroidery from the pile and, all the while giving her a disgusted look, slipped it under his arm next to his bag. He checked that it was secure, and then marched away towards the door to join Mizaistom.

“Stay back,” said Mizaistom. “I’m warning you. Not another step, ma’am.” 

Zepile halted, confused. He looked at Mizaistom as if he’d lost his mind.

“Restrain!”

“What the hell are you—” Zepile started to ask, but noticed the vivid yellow card Mizaistom had just finished turning over from the image of an exclamation point to a cross.

“ _You_ can keep walking,” said Mizaistom to Zepile. “You’ve wasted enough time already. I’ll use this card on you, too, if I have to, if that’s what it takes get you to finally leave.”

Zepile wasn’t any less confused than he’d been already. He frowned and looked around for a second before noticing something long and pale out of the corner of his eye. He jumped back in alarm at the sight of the dealer only a few steps behind him. In her right hand, she brandished a long, bone-colored cane high in the air, ready to bring it down on Zepile’s right arm and force him to drop the framed hair embroidery. Clutching his bag and the framed hair embroidery to his chest to protect them, Zepile skittered the rest of the way out of the range.

“Why can’t I move?” demanded the dealer. Zepile realized with a queasy feeling that she was frozen in place, though still able to speak. He took another anxious step back, not at all happy that it was towards Mizaistom, the person apparently responsible for whatever was going on.

“The effect will wear off in a moment, but I’ll restrain you again if you don’t back down,” said Mizaistom. He turned the card over to the side with the exclamation point again. “Here’s another warning.”

Mizaistom looked over at Zepile expectantly. Zepile stared back, wide-eyed and immobile.

“Let’s go.”

Zepile obeyed the command at last and hurried to the door. Mizaistom stepped aside to let him by, but Zepile hesitated before ducking past and out into the street. He recognized Mizaistom’s usual driver behind the wheel of a rented car and went to get in. Shortly after, Mizaistom joined them.

“I guess one benefit of you being the Hunter police or whatever is that I probably don’t have to explain myself too much,” said Zepile, breaking the silence as the car gradually merged into the slow city traffic on the larger, main road. Congestion would only increase as they headed into town, so it was going to be a while before whatever happened next. Instead of waiting in suspense, Zepile decided it’d be better to get the yelling and lectures out of the way, and then, figure out what exactly Mizaistom planned to do with him. 

“Since you’re a Hunter, you’ve probably got all the evidence you need to take me in,” explained Zepile when Mizaistom didn’t respond. “Are we going anywhere special? I bet you’ve got a nice cell picked out already with my name on it. You wouldn’t come all this way unprepared.”

“You’re not under arrest,” said Mizaistom. He stared forward as he spoke, his eyes boring holes into the headrest of the seat in front of him.

“Ah. So, you’re going to force me to confess first, for good measure,” said Zepile. “In favor of time, you can type the confession out yourself, and then just have me sign it. I’m okay with that. I trust you to write an honest and perfectly damning account of all my criminal activities.”

“A confession won’t be necessary. You aren’t being charged with a crime.”

“You’re going to come at me with a civil suit? Making it personal?”

“I don’t see the point in taking you to court at all.”

Zepile scoffed. “Sure,” he said. “Not right now, you mean. Okay. Well, for future reference, whenever you do decide to prosecute me to the fullest extent of the law, keep in mind I’d like to settle this matter outside of a courtroom, if that’s at all an option. I don’t have the stamina for a trial I know I’ve already lost. I also don’t have the money. Let me just plea guilty and take the punishment. I know what I did.”

“I’d rather we omit any form of litigation and discuss what you’ve done and why between ourselves.”

“Oh. Generous.” 

“I’m trying to be reasonable.”

“Reasonable?” asked Zepile. He took a deep breath. ”Or could it be you’re just holding back because I’m your ticket to the Bagliores and Nostrades. Can’t afford to get rid of me yet, so, we’re going to talk it out like buddies and make good until a later date, when you can actually afford to hold me accountable for my actions.”

Mizaistom’s crossed arms tightened. He gritted his teeth, barely biting back the first response that came to him. It was nothing but useless words he’d regret once he finished lashing out.

Zepile took Mizaistom’s bitter silence as affirmation that he’d assumed correctly. 

“What I think you want to discuss,” said Zepile, “is whether you can be implicated if anyone traces an illegal item back to me. In that case, don’t sweat it. I used my own money and my own connections to acquire the items I sold on the black market. Every cent of every transaction involving your stuff is accounted for. Even the stipend you’ve been paying me is clean. I didn’t use a single jenny of your money to so much as buy a bus ticket if it was to get to an illegal sale. I kept you and me separate. So, all the shady business is on me, and that’s it. You can relax. You’re safe. You’re welcome.”

“I told you not to break the law.”

“And I told you that ‘not breaking the law’ isn’t how you get into the black market.”

“You told me you weren’t going to break the law.”

“You threatened to send me to jail and refused to listen to my reasonable, professional advice when I told you your timeframe didn’t match your expectations. For the sake of the mission, I took matters into my own hands. And, may I repeat myself? _You’re welcome_.” 

Mizaistom tucked his chin down towards his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, physically reining himself in as his eerily still body pulsed with the suppressed energy of the outburst he wouldn’t allow himself to make. Traces of his frustration trickled out in his aura, and Zepile, absolute Nen amateur though he was, could sense it. Though Zepile had made plenty of genuine attempts to piss Mizaistom off in the past, he realized now that he probably didn’t want to be around when Mizaistom did lose his cool. He thought of the shop dealer, frozen in place, and scrambled to retreat, his fear of a supernatural repercusion spurring him on more than anything.

“Hey, you,” said Zepile to the man driving. “Pull over and let me out.”

The driver’s eyes clouded with uncertainty as he looked up into the rearview mirror. Zepile leaned forward, pointing to a section of curb up ahead. The driver looked past him through the mirror to Mizaistom. Almost imperceptibly, Mizaistom shook his head and the driver, who was just starting to slow down and pull away from traffic, sped up and slipped back onto the main road.

“You let me out or I’ll throw myself out,” said Zepile. “Try me. I’ve done it before.”

This surprised Mizaistom enough that he sat up and opened his eyes. Zepile was clinging to the door handle. After realizing he’d gotten Mizaistom’s attention, he pantomimed tugging at it hard, warning him what would happen if his demand to be let out of the car wasn’t met. The driver saw and locked the doors. Zepile unlocked his immediately in answer and gloated that the driver needed to start thinking about his culpability if he didn’t slow down and pull over. The driver hit the lock button again, and Mizaistom held up a hand for him to stop as Zepile flicked the locking mechanism back.

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Mizaistom, turning and glaring at Zepile. “That plan’s too reckless. The car is moving.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to use Nen to stop me.”

“If you want to throw yourself out of the car, then I _will_ use Nen to stop you, and for your own good,” said Mizaistom. He was already reaching into his pocket for a card. Zepile paled as he watched, but didn’t back down.

“I dare you to use your special Hunter unfair Nen advantage on me,” said Zepile. He defiantly maintained a firm grip on the door handle. “What’s the point of having Nen if you can’t use it to control people who can’t defend themselves, right? You Hunters say you need all that Nen to fight other Nen-users, but there really aren’t that many other Nen-users. So, might as well get some use out of it by forcing a non-complying criminal to sit still when all he really, truly wants, and you know it, is to get the hell away from you so badly he’s legitimately considering taking his chances jumping into traffic to do it.”

Mizaistom hesitated as his hand brushed the surface of the three cards. He caught the driver’s eye, sighed, and nodded silently for him to pull over. Zepile scrambled to collect his bag. He left the framed hair embroidery on the seat between them, saying it was Mizaistom’s property, so, it was Mizaistom’s problem.

“I think you need to chill out for a bit, pull yourself together,” said Zepile to Mizaistom. His feet were already outside the car, but he’d twisted back around for a second to offer some last-minute parting words. “Maybe we’ll convene later when you’re no longer in a mood to get mad and berate me for what I did wrong under this stupid guise of us ‘discussing’ anything, alright? I goddamn know exactly what I did wrong. I went behind your back to do it precisely because I knew it was wrong. I’m not an idiot. Lecturing me now because you just found out and you’re pissed will only waste my time. So, come get me when you can think straight and actually know what you’re going to do about all this, okay?”

“Go,” said Mizaistom, not looking at Zepile as Zepile got out of the car. “Go wherever you want, but keep in mind there’s nowhere you can run where I can’t track you down.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re a Hunter,” said Zepile before the door shut completely. “I get it.” He slammed the door by kicking it the final few centimeters of the way shut. It wasn't especially loud or dramatic over such a short distance, but it expressed his sentiments exactly and served to vent at least part of his frustration. The driver sighed and looked forlornly out into the street, waiting for an opening to merge into. Behind him, Mizaistom resumed glaring holes into the headrest of the seat in front of him. He withdrew his hand at last from his inside pocket, setting it beside him in a clenched fist.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Mizaistom’s Baleno City office was small. It was shared between the five team members stationed there, though no more than three were ever around at a given time. The team’s current, primary mission was to manage security for the regional vice president of an international shipping company. The man had recently turned against his mafia-friendly superiors in exchange for immunity once the case against the company’s owners went to trial. He didn’t trust the official police security team charged with protecting him before the trial, and though Relumbria wasn’t somewhere Mizaistom’s company usually operated, the vice president had offered almost twice the going rate to guarantee a team from them. When it came to security, Mizaistom’s brand was famous worldwide for never colluding with criminals. Oftentimes, this made him and his team more dependable than regional police forces in areas ruled by organized crime. If a person needed protection not only from enemies, but from the corrupt system itself, Mizaistom’s company was among one of the first and only uncompromisable options available.

Such a sterling reputation could end up tarnished if anyone peered too closely into Mizaistom’s personal life and saw that he was, right at that moment, seriously grappling with the decision of whether or not to abet a black market antiques trader in the crime of selling illegal goods he’d shipped into the country through an underground network backed by the most powerful mafia organizations in all of Relumbria. On the surface, it was an obvious choice, yet one Mizaistom was taking a suspiciously long time to make. He should do the right thing and bring the criminal to justice. It wasn’t unreasonable. He’d told Zepile plainly what to expect if he crossed the line and broke the law, and Zepile had chosen to do so regardless. It was fair to punish him. Zepile himself expected it.

If he allowed himself to stop his hemming and hawing, Mizaistom would admit that his final decision hadn’t really taken any time at all. It just hadn’t been a decision he particularly liked: Mizaistom would let Zepile get away with everything. 

Of course, this would make Mizaistom an accessory after the fact, and, if he were found out, compromise everything he stood for as a Two-star Crime Hunter, but, try as he might, Mizaistom simply couldn’t bring himself to see the justice served by turning Zepile in. He was now struggling with the lingering moral strife that went along with the choice of turning a blind eye to criminal acts, as well as going back on his own word that such acts would be punished severely if they were ever committed under his watch.

The office had been mostly empty all day, which had given Mizaistom plenty of quiet time to think matters over and come to terms with his decision. At last, he was beginning to stir, to take action, albeit reluctantly. He frowned for a moment and traced his thumb over the edge of one of the black, bovinesque blotches on his left sleeve. Then, he pulled the fabric taut so that the pattern lay smooth, the black and white in stark contrast to each other on a plane uninterrupted by the usual folds and shadows that shifted and changed whenever he moved. 

Despite how surprising it might be to people that the so-called “conscious of the Zodiacs” could see the world in shades other than black and white, Mizaistom was also a lawyer who favored the fairest outcome above all else. The problem was, crime and equitable punishment weren’t always as clearly defined as laymen might claim, as if distinguishing right and wrong were a simple matter of moral arithmetic. Two judges in two separate parts of the world decided the same cases in two distinct ways influenced by their cultures and their home country’s existing legal precedents. Not every case was a simple matter of absolute wrong and absolute right, clear and evident, interpreted equally by all. Otherwise, lawyers would be unnecessary, all trials would be decided in minutes instead of weeks and months, and the appellate process wouldn’t have a reason to exist. 

This was why, too, that even if Zepile’s guilt in committing a criminal act was undeniable, Mizaistom had to be fair and consider more than the crime alone as a factor in deciding his verdict. The crime didn’t exist inside a vacuum. It would be unjust to ignore what had played into it and, in this particular instance, Mizaistom’s own measure of personal responsibility.  

Even before he’d arrived to the shop, Mizaistom had known his verdict. He’d made the reckless choice to confront Zepile because he’d wanted Zepile to experience the unpleasant shock of being discovered and the burden of Mizaistom’s immense disappointment in him. He’d wanted to see the look of shame on Zepile face for his actions, to see that he was repentant, and then, though in hindsight it was impossible and ridiculous, he’d wanted to talk to Zepile and hear him apologize. That’d been it. That had been all the punishment Mizaistom had deemed necessary, because deep down, he knew he’d driven Zepile to take drastic measures in the first place when he’d decided to look down on and work above Zepile rather than alongside him.

When Leorio had asked Mizaistom to keep an eye on Zepile, he’d been hinting at more or less this exact scenario, even if he hadn’t known it at the time. Leorio wasn’t aware, for example, that Zepile hadn’t simply paid Gon back with a shady loan from a black market bank in York Shin. Zepile had pawned an organ as collateral, but he’d left that detail out, knowing Leorio would take it poorly. Mizaistom, on the other hand, had known all about it, because Mizaistom had looked into Zepile’s history and found it out within a week after meeting him. At the time, Mizaistom had used the information as an excuse to distrust Zepile more, rather than as a sign to look out for him and make sure he didn’t make any similarly risky decisions during their mission. 

If Mizaistom were honest with himself—as he insisted to himself that he must be—he’d already suspected Zepile would have no choice but to break the law. Zepile had been right. There’d been no other option. Not wanting to admit to the situation he’d contributed to, Mizaistom had taken Zepile’s success at face value. Now, it was too late to go back. He was forced to take the risk of letting Zepile off the hook while hoping, trusting, that Zepile would never do anything in the future that could be traced back to Mizaistom himself. This was because, in his long list of blunders, Mizaistom’s choice to confront Zepile that afternoon at the shop might’ve been the worst. The dealer running the shop knew him now and could testify that someone who’d looked like Mizaistom Nana and who’d used his same card-based Nen ability had been fully aware of Zepile’s crimes and had never acted. 

Mizaistom swallowed hard. It’d been a long time since he’d miscalculated his approach to a problem so severely, letting his emotions dictate his response far ahead of his rational side. He’d taken everything too personally. He’d felt betrayed, somehow, not only by the criminal course of action Zepile had chosen and which Mizaistom had unwittingly benefitted from, but by the fact that Zepile had lied and kept it from him so long largely because Mizaistom himself had looked the other way and allowed it to happen.

As Mizaistom stared into contrast of the pattern on his sleeve and lost himself in the monotony of his thoughts, the light in the office went out. Just as quickly, it snapped back on. He looked up, roused, towards the open office door. Someone there gasped.

“Sorry!” called out one of the investigators standing halfway out the door. “I almost forgot you were here, Mr. Nana. You’re just so quiet.”

“It’s alright,” said Mizaistom. His voice was gruff, as if he’d been sleeping rather than staring down at his sleeve. He let the fabric go and leaned aside to check the clock on the desk, noting with a start that it was already seven in the evening. It made sense, then, that the investigator had assumed on his way out that he must be the last one in the office. A second too late, he’d remembered that the boss of the entire company he worked for was sitting at the team leader’s desk, reviewing plans for a top-secret security detail they’d accepted from the Bagliore family the week before.

“Have you been making big changes for the Bagliores?” asked the investigator. “Seems to be a tough assignment.”

“There are other Hunters involved,” said Mizaistom, sitting up and rolling his aching shoulders. His joints made a series of popping cracks he found mildly unsettling, and he stopped. “It’s a bit of a challenge,” he admitted, “but I’m the only Hunter in the company available to take the assignment right now, so, a lot of the on-the-ground work has fallen to me.”

“That’s too bad,” said the investigator. “Running your own security plan against other Hunters? I’d think the Hunter Association ought to send assistance in these kinds of situations, right?”

“I’m not protecting the client from rogue Hunters on behalf of the Hunter Association,” said Mizaistom. “It’s different if it’s unrelated to the Association. Otherwise, I’d….” 

Mizaistom hesitated. He’d fully intended to start explaining the differences in the two approaches meticulous detail, but his voice trailed off as a new thought interrupted him. The investigator at the door adopted a more comfortable standing position and waited.

“At any rate, I’ll contact the Association myself if the threats to the client are beyond my capabilities,” said Mizaistom at last. “That’s all.” 

The investigator at the door breathed a subtle sigh of relief and nodded. Mizaistom wished him a good rest of his evening, which the investigator accepted cheerfully, though he joked that “evening” was a concept that only existed on the clockface. It’d been virtually night since half past four, which always made him feel twice as tired as he usually would’ve felt when working late. He’d probably go straight to sleep after dinner and not wake up for nine hours. 

Mizaistom stared at the investigator blankly, not sure what to do with this overload of information. He wished him a goodnight in addition to the good evening, and the investigator, catching on to the uncomfortable situation, departed with a quick, awkward wave soon after. Mizaistom was left where he sat, brow furrowed tightly, now totally alone.

He’d call Cheadle in a half hour. It was the only solution. She’d agree to classify Mizaistom’s work as a clandestine mission undergone in the interests of the Hunter Association. Then, she’d file the details away as restricted information once the assignment was completed. This would limit the legal repercussions Mizaistom might face in the future, and he could extend some of that immunity to Zepile as long as he lied and said he’d solicited Zepile to break the law for him from the start. This still wouldn’t do any wonders for Mizaistom’s reputation if it got out, naturally, but if the precautions he took paid off, the case would never go beyond an investigation conducted within the Hunter Association itself. The clients of his private security company would never know.

For Zepile, the benefit was greater. If he were ever connected to the Relumbrian black market in the future, the Hunter Association would step in and evaluate his case in connection to Mizaistom’s work. Most likely, they would omit him from the proceedings, functionally rendering him as good as dead and unable to either testify or stand trial. The Association would also have his name stricken from all documents related to the case, replacing it instead with a vague moniker, like “Hunter Association operative”, which could stand in for anyone, Hunter or not, as long as they’d been working with the Association. All Mizaistom had to do was take responsibility for the crimes Zepile had committed, and then, hope that this information was never leaked or used to blackmail him.

As usual, Mizaistom clenched a fist at the unbidden image of Pariston in his mind’s eye, though such thoughts had grown more infrequent now that he no longer saw the man hovering ceaselessly around the administration offices at the Hunter Association Headquarters every time he arrived to meet with the chairman. Slippery Pariston with his ingratiating smile might not be vice president any longer, but nothing made Mizaistom feel his shadow more than imagining his chances of being blackmailed from within the Hunter Association itself. It was almost enough to make Mizaistom hesitate over whether he considered the risk acceptable for the sake of protecting Zepile. Before he could convince himself to change his decision to support Zepile, he reminded himself that showing up to the shop in person and openly demonstrating his Nen ability against the owner had been his own fault due to his rash and selfish need to act and confront wrongdoers. He was going to have to contact Cheadle about the special classification of the mission anyway just for that, just in case the shop owner filed a complaint.

Mizaistom didn’t look forward to explaining all of this to Zepile later. Zepile would be relentless criticizing how Mizaistom, as a Hunter, could freely choose to operate above the law if he wished, whereas Zepile, even if he’d been helping a Hunter, couldn't unless the Hunter employing him admitted to asking him to break the law. It’d be impossible for Mizaistom to argue much against Zepile’s bad opinion of him and Hunters, since Mizaistom was among the first to admit how abusive and unfair the legal position of a Hunter could be, particularly in countries like Relumbria, where the Association’s precedence over Relumbria’s own legal system in regards to crimes committed by Hunters was respected almost without question. Almost always, the countries most beset by organized crime and the illegal use of Nen were the ones that allowed Hunters the most freedom when it came to conducting Association related business.

Mizaistom leaned back in his chair. He stroked the bristly line of neatly clipped beard along his chin thoughtfully, his hand wandering up, back towards his ear and the gold earring hanging from it. 

Explaining to Zepile would be the hardest part after calling Cheadle to lie to her about arranging a dangerous plan involving Zepile breaking the law, and then admitting his own foolish mistake at the shop. He’d have to lie about why he’d needed to confront Zepile so urgently. That was even more troublesome. Still, lying to Cheadle over the phone would be infinitely easier than persuading Zepile afterwards to sit down and listen for any length of time. That alone was enough of a chore even when Zepile wasn’t already riled up and defensive. 

For at least once today, Mizaistom had to be smart and think his actions through. Forcing Zepile to listen or trying to boss him around would be a disaster. He didn’t want to destroy every last shred of his and Zepile’s previously almost amicable relationship right before they needed to attend the Bagliore party together. A pang of regret went through him, stronger than he’d have liked, as he considered it. To think he’d nearly jeopardized the mission at the last minute for a selfish desire to see Zepile cowed and apologetic. Mizaistom couldn’t in good conscious let himself get away with that. Someone in Mizaistom’s position needed to know and be better.

Irritated, Mizaistom let his hand drop from the earing. He picked up the phone. It was time to call Cheadle and confess, then. After that, he’d head out to find Zepile and explain, and he’d do it right. The mission wasn’t over yet. 


	19. Goodnight

Mizaistom found Zepile at last in one of Baleno City’s many casinos, socializing in a boisterous huddle with a group of strangers at the end of a bar. Every so often, he would look up and scan the area, clearly expecting company. When he spotted Mizaistom in the crowd, he smiled and waved to him, calling him “cowboy” and inviting him over. Mizaistom pursed his lips and steeled himself for the worst. 

Zepile’s exuberant greeting hadn’t reassured Mizaistom, nor had the number of empty drinks and spent cigarettes atop the bar. He curtly declined an offer from one of the strangers to order him something as she leaned across the bar to call for another beer for herself.

“I’ve thought about it,” said Zepile after greeting Mizaistom a second time at the exact same volume he had already from across the room, “and I think that if you are being hired to protect me from Hunters, then the Bagliores won’t hesitate to give you an invitation. Right? Therefore, I can find myself another plus one, someone I actually enjoy the company of. If you want, I can find you one, too. No commission. You want a dude or a chick?”

“We went over this, Zepile,” said Mizaistom, speaking slowly as if to a child. Thankfully, the rest of the group didn’t seem to be paying them much attention. “If my name is on the invite list, it’ll confirm I’m there before I even arrive. Using a false name instead will also make people suspicious, because no-one will know the name, and they’ll investigate who it is. It’s better to arrive without announcing myself on the guest list.”

“You could just show up on the day without a formal invitation and walk right in. Fiammata and Fulmineo won’t stop you.”

“Although it’s nothing you’d ever think about, a professional Hunter or a security officer will immediately notice and take alarm at a sudden, uninvited guest, regardless of how warmly the hosts welcome them.”

Zepile groaned and threw up his hands in mock exasperation, dropping his cigarette along the way. He swore, put his drink down, and began to search the dark floor around him for where the cigarette had fallen. Mizaistom pulled him up by his shoulder before he could squat down. When Zepile turned to explain what had happened, he saw Mizaistom, without a word, holding up the cigarette he’d caught between his pointer finger and thumb in mid-air with assistance from his En and the battle honed reflexes trained into him over years of sparring with Ex-Chairman Netero. 

Zepile gaped at Mizaistom and the cigarette, his sizeable eyebrows almost joining his hairline as they rose up in astonishment. Mizaistom turned his hand over, palm up, and offered the cigarette back. Zepile accepted it in a daze and laughed nervously before lifting it to his lips.

“Well, uh,” said Zepile, stumbling over whatever he’d been intending to say before his lost cigarette had been so miraculously plucked out of the air and returned to him. “Well, then, I see it that you need a date so hot no-one’s gonna suspect you’re even capable of spying on them. Right? Something to bring their guards right back down then you walk through the door. You know what I mean?”

“The hotness of the date is inconsequential in this matter.”

“Tell that to Heriol after you get a look at him,” said Zepile. He indicated the magnificently attractive man on his right who nodded to Mizaistom and greeted him politely. The golden highlights of his dark hair glittered in the low light of the bar as he reached a hand past Zepile to shake. Mizaistom accepted with perfunctory quickness, the gesture barely even registering in his mind as his gaze remained fixed on Zepile.

“Or, you can go alone,” said Zepile simply, putting on an air of indifference as he turned away towards the bar and picked up his neglected glass. He swirled the contents of it around, watching the half-melted ice spin in circles. “You seem like a guy who shows up to parties alone a lot. Probably not a big deal for you.”

“I might know someone who’s free,” suggested the helpful Heriol. “Your friend isn’t bad looking. It won’t be hard. Plus, it sounds like a cool party. Anyone would go.”

Heriol smiled warmly when Mizaistom met his eye, revealing a perfect row of evenly sized teeth between pillowy lips. His eyelashes were so thick that when he blinked, it seemed like it was in slow motion.

“Then, you go with him,” said Zepile to Heriol. “He needs a fun guy like you. Maybe you can teach him how to lighten up.”

Mizaistom and Heriol exchanged a look around Zepile’s hunched shoulders as Zepile leaned over the bar and called the bartender over to ask her for directions to the nearest restroom. Heriol motioned that Zepile had been drinking quite a bit, and Mizaistom indicated back that he’d noticed.

“Right. So. You two should get to know each other before the big day,” said Zepile. He hopped down from his seat next to Heriol and motioned for Mizaistom to take it. “Me, I’m going to the bathroom real quick. And I mean quick. I’ve...gotta run.” 

Zepile finished his drink in one gulp, flecks of ice and all. He set it down hard onto its coaster and made a disgusted face as he slide it down the bar. Then, he pushed himself away from the counter and stumbled off into the crowd without a word.

Mizaistom didn’t take the seat he’d been invited to do, but he didn’t make any move to follow Zepile to the bathroom, either. Heriol smiled again and shrugged in good-natured apology for Zepile’s behavior before he returned to his drink. He watched his friends’ antics with mild interest, passively keeping up with the thread of their conversation as he waited for Mizaistom to do or say something. 

Only after Zepile had fully disappeared into the crowd did Mizaistom make his next move. He had a good opportunity to do a bit of damage control without Zepile interfering, or worse, getting offended, complaining that Mizaistom didn’t trust him, and then using that mistrust as an excuse to make a scene in hopes that the attention he drew would allow him to avoid having to go anywhere with Mizaistom for the rest of the night.

“So, what has Zepile been talking about?” asked Mizaistom, leaning over the bar and speaking low enough to make it clear he was only addressing Heriol. Heriol turned back to look at him. The rest of the group continued speaking amongst themselves and didn’t pay Mizaistom or Heriol any mind.

“He regrets what he did,” said Heriol with refreshing frankness. Mizaistom was relieved to be working with someone who didn’t waste a lot of time. “He says you were right about him, that he’s unreliable. He feels bad for betraying your trust.”

“Did he tell you anything about what exactly he did to betray my trust?”

“Well, he cheated on you, didn’t he?”

Mizaistom gritted his teeth and fought back the immediate, forceful denial that reared up inside him. Heriol offered him a sympathetic smile.

“He, uh, he told you that?” asked Mizaistom. “He said all that?”

“In those exact words, no. But, he keeps saying he went behind your back and lied to you. Now, he needs a new date for the Bagliore party. It’s sort of obvious what happened.”

Mizaistom frowned and nodded, grabbing his chin. “Indeed.”

The bartender came over to collect the empty glasses, and Mizaistom waved her over to order a White Russian for himself. He made sure to pay in cash, asking her if Zepile had a tab open and how much was on it. He winced internally at the amount, but closed it anyway as he paid for his drink. At last, he took Zepile’s relinquished seat. 

Heriol leaned in to explain and make apologies, admitting that some of the drinks were his, since Zepile had offered everyone rounds after announcing he’d had a payday recently and plenty of cash to burn. Mizaistom assured Heriol it was alright; Mizaistom could afford it. It was a relief anyway to know that Zepile hadn’t spent all of it on himself, alone, though if that were the case, he would’ve found Zepile in a hospital, not at the bar.

“So, where do you know Zepile from?” asked Mizaistom. His drink arrived, and he took a quick, obligatory sip, barely wetting his lips.

“We see each other around,” said Heriol. “I work in an auction house in Pharola. He’s over there sometimes.” 

“Have you known each other a while?”

“I met to him when he came around the auction house the first time to ask about entering some items he had in our upcoming sale. He was waiting for my boss. We talked about about the antiques market in the region.” 

“So, you’ve only known him a few weeks.”

“Personally, yes. But, I’ve known about him a bit longer.” 

“What do you mean?”

“He made quite a splash showing up with such high quality items and the most uncompromising attitude you’d ever see in a foreign trader operating under such a strict deadline,” said Heriol. He gave a short, genuinely amused laugh that lacked any hint of mockery. Mizaistom almost smiled back. After being situated on the receiving end of Zepile’s ironic tone and jeering grins for weeks on end, Heriol’s manner was a breath of fresh air. 

“My boss, of course, said it would, I quote, ‘come back to bite him in the ass’, though,” continued Heriol, now without laughing. “He said Zepile took too hard a line on his prices at the start, and that in the end he’d be stuck more or less giving everything away to meet his deadline.”

Mizaistom looked down at his drink. “Anyone would get desperate under a close deadline. It makes sense he’s scrambling now.”

“Scrambling?” Heriol scoffed. “Hardly.”

Mizaistom looked incredulous, inviting Heriol to explain.

“It’s exceedingly difficult to sell items under a strict deadline and still get a good price, that’s true,” said Heriol. He smiled as he spoke, finding something oddly satisfying about being the one to share the full story with Mizaistom. “My boss bought one of the cheaper items, but told us to hold out for when Zepile was desperate later. However, we underestimated his sheer relentlessness. Half his stock was sold off in a little over a week after he met with us. He moved faster than word about him could spread, so, several other dealers took our same approach to buy something at the lower end to let him know we were interested, gambling that he’d come back around when he was desperate to sell off the rest. Now, indeed, he’s coming back around, but what he’s got left is a mix of the most valuable items and the hardest to sell, and he’s only offering them in lots.”

“In lots?”

“You have to buy more than one item together. That way, you get a discount on the valuable items, but you’re obligated to take on items that aren’t selling in the current market, too. And, because you know he’s got buyers all around town, you feel pressured to buy now or miss the opportunity.” 

“I see,” said Mizaistom. He swallowed more of his drink this time as he took a sip. Heriol, barely pausing to check that Mizaistom was listening, went on.

“My boss chose not to wait and had me call up two days ago pretending to have reservations about the recent appraisal of one of the antique vases Zepile and I had been talking about when he’d first visited. I invited him around to have a look at the vase so I could get an unbiased estimate of the price, and my boss was able to preserve his pride by pretending to happen upon us by chance. Of course, I don’t believe for a second Zepile didn’t see straight through the charade from the moment I called, but he knew he’d make a sale if he played along. He also got a free meal, since my boss invited us both out to lunch with him.”

Mizaistom grunted. “That seems like a lot of work,” he said, “selling things in such a manner. A lot of running around all over the place.”

“It certainly isn’t the easiest,” agreed Heriol with a thoughtful nod. “I can’t even imagine what his client is paying him to make it worth all the effort.”

“Well, he did promise to sell everything.”

“And he will!” cheered Heriol. He lifted his drink in a small toast and took a sip. Mizaistom nodded back and lifted his own drink to his mouth, but without returning the toast.

“Maybe it’s some rich family overseas, judging by how quickly he’s got close to the Bagliores,” said Heriol after he’d set his drink back down. “Did he tell you about it? Or did you meet him recently, too? He’s vague about his client. Some of us think maybe he’s a Hunter.”

Mizaistom arched a suspicious brow. “You think his client is a Hunter?”

“No. _Zepile_.”

Mizaistom, unable to effectively masked his shock, hastily pulled the drink he was still holding up back towards his mouth and took a legitimate gulp of nearly a quarter of its contents at once. He coughed and sputtered right after, acknowledging to himself that, like most of his spur of the moment decisions so far today, this had been a poor one.

“Why would you think he’s a Hunter?” rasped Mizaistom. He stooped down to clear his throat again. Heriol watched on, patient, but eager to share the evidence. 

“I’m not personally decided on it,” said Heriol with a shrug and disarming half smile. “But, my boss speculated he might be, especially after we heard he was working with Dr. Teluz and appraising items for the Bagliore family. How else do you get in contact with people like that after only a couple of weeks in Baleno City? And then, there’s the connection people say he has to someone with Scarlet Eyes. I mean, obviously, Zepile isn’t an average guy.”

Mizaistom struggled to clear his throat as Heriol spoke. He didn’t overlook the irony of the fact that most of what Zepile had accomplished so far had required almost none of his Hunter connections. He’d even hidden the method behind his biggest breakthroughs from the very Hunter he was supposed to have been working with. 

“Your boss is jumping to conclusions,” said Mizaistom, straightening up. “Most Hunters don’t hide the fact that they’re Hunters. He’d probably be able to sell more items if people had that sort of a guarantee of his credentials. If they knew he was a Hunter.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Heriol. Mizaistom was equally doubtful, but heard him out. “My boss says sometimes Hunters act different in the antiques world, very low-key. They aren’t so open about their status, since people tend to consider Hunter’s eccentric and hard to work with. The second you find out you’ll be working with a Hunter, you’re already regretting your bad luck. It’s not in Hunters’ natures to collaborate.”

Mizaistom looked away guiltily. The second star a Two-star Hunter earned was sometimes, somewhat derisively, referred to as the “team player” star. For many Hunters, its collaborative factor made it one of the largest roadblocks on the path towards advancing one’s personal ranking within the Association. More independent Hunter types, such as Blacklist Hunters, rarely achieved more than a single star in their entire careers for this exact reason. Working alone, the ranking system made clear, while tempting for someone as skilled as a Hunter, was not the ideal way of accomplishing objectives that benefited humankind.

“Dating is sort of like collaborating, but emotionally,” said Heriol in a softer, more consoling tone. In the dim, smoke-filled light of the bar, he’d mistaken Mizaistom’s guilty expression for one of suppressed pain. “If he _is_ a Hunter, then I guess it’s easier to accept what he did. He’s probably not great with dating. Too busy being great at selling antiques.”

Mizaistom set his drink down heavily, completely missing the napkin that’d been set under it as a coaster. Two oversized cubes of ice clinked hard against the glass, and a few drops of milky alcohol splashed out and splattered onto the counter and over Miziastom’s hand. 

“Why does everyone think Hunters are bad at dating?” demanded Mizaistom. “Can anyone even prove that? Did Zepile tell you that? Does he really go around telling everyone that all the time?”

The group near Heriol paused in their conversation, looked over, and immediately changed gears to participate in the new Hunter gossip.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said one. “They can probably date really well. I don’t think they can handle commitment, though. But, I guess if you don’t need someone around, waiting at home for you, then they might be fun for a fling.”

Mizaistom stared at the person speaking, affronted at the implication that he, as a Hunter, didn’t see the value of another person’s companionship and devotion. Yes, it was difficult for him to provide the traditional, stable living situation many people considered to be a hallmark of a truly “serious” relationship, but that wasn’t because he didn’t care. The life of a Hunter wasn’t for everyone, and he wasn’t going to force anyone to compromise the level of intimacy and contact they longed for in a relationship, just as he wouldn’t expect anyone to force him to compromise his work as a Hunter solely for them.

“I can definitely see Hunters going more for flings,” agreed another friend. Mizaistom fired a pointed look at them, as well. “Or really, just hook-ups.” 

“Shit, I’d fuck a Hunter,” said a third. Mizaistom’s eyes went wide, while his mind, despite knowing full-well that no-one was talking about him in particular, immediately butted in with a firm assurance that he didn’t share the sentiment and definitely wouldn’t fuck this person, ever. 

“I tell you,” the third person went on, explaining what no-one had asked them to, “Hunters live on the edge. That’d be intense. I once saw a Hunter on a nature documentary about bees, and she looked kinky as hell. I was like, what the hell, girl, the bees don’t sting you? Don’t you need to cover up? She was out there half-naked showing you the inside of the hive and shit and talking about bee society, like how bees think. Damn.”

“That’s Kimberbee, right?” asked the first person before shrugging and nodding once it was confirmed that it’d indeed been Kimberbee. Mizaistom tried to remember who this Hunter was, but didn’t know her personally. “Yeah, I guess she’s hot.”

“Every Hunter I’ve ever seen has been attractive. At least on TV.”

“Ew. No. Some are super weird, though. They can’t all be Kimberbee.”

“They’re still probably all freaks, though. You kinda have to be sort of a freak to be a Hunter, just like, in general, right?” 

No, thought Mizaistom, still too dumbfounded to speak. Freakishness was not a characteristic the examination board weighed when testing applicants. There was absolutely no data whatsoever on how one’s Hunter status correlated to one’s level of sexual deviancy. There simply wasn’t enough of a trend to merit any serious research.

“You just really want to fuck a Hunter,” scoffed the first person. “Too bad you’re never going to meet one who’s a freak enough to fuck you, though.”

“Oh, shut up,” said the third person. “I’d totally fuck a Hunter. Any Hunter. We can skip the dating. Dating’s sort of a moot point with Hunters anyway, like we said. Who wants to date someone who’s gonna choose fucking bees over you at the end of the day?”

“Oh, so, you think Kimberbee fucks bees?”

“That’s not what I--” the third person began to argue, but then stopped, thought about it, and laughed. “Hey, sure. Why not?”

“No, wait, you guys,” interjected the second person, who’d mostly just been shaking their head at the other two and occasionally looking around as if regretting their choice of drinking companions. “That’s physically impossible. Please, let’s not talk about literally fucking bees. That’s stupid.” 

“I bet you ten thousand jenny she’s tried.”

“I bet you twenty thousand jenny she’s found a way.”

“You guys, it’s absolutely, anatomically impossible.”

“Hunters do the impossible every damn day.”

“Ah, okay. So you’re saying there’s a chance a Hunter might actually fuck you someday, then, huh?”

“I already told you to shut up.”

Mizaistom felt compelled to remind himself of the highly pertinent fact that most average people went their entire lives without ever once meeting a Hunter, whether they knew it or not. A Hunter to them was more of a concept, like a rumor about people eating dogs in other countries. Everyone knew about Hunters and had formed their own stereotypes and opinions on them, but hardly anyone had the real, factual, first-hand experience to support their opinions. Hence, it was pointless for Mizaistom to take what anyone was saying about Hunters personally. They were just talking, trying to say ridiculous things for fun at the expensive of a group of privileged individuals none of them had ever met. 

And yet at the same time, for other, unrelated reasons, Mizaistom found it impossible to let the group’s increasingly crude and nonsensical talk slide.

“Are you idiots quite done?” snapped Mizaistom after the group’s laughter died down. He’d shot to his feet while they’d still been speaking, but before he could announce how classless and moronic he thought everything they’d said was, a hand grasped his upper arm and tugged downwards, suggesting he take a seat. He met Heriol’s eye, and Heriol apologized on behalf of his friends with a pained, embarrassed smile. He let Mizaistom go, but again, beckoned him to sit without speaking. The group, taking the chance to escape, inched farther away. Obviously, Mizaistom hadn’t appreciated their sense of humor. 

“Sorry,” said Heriol. “That was actually from an older conversation we had joking with Zepile about if he were a Hunter.”

“You were joking how great it’d be to have sex with him if he were?”

“I mean…yes,” admitted Heriol, ashamed. “But, I understand you probably don’t want to hear it, and I’m not going to snitch on him, either. You’ve been through enough already. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Plus, I can probably guess what he’s said about Hunters. He doesn’t especially like them.”

“You think he’s definitely not a Hunter, then?”

“No, he isn’t.”

“Maybe he’s hiding it? Like my boss said.”

“No.”

“You can’t be sure. Hunters aren’t always straightforward, especially considering their reputation.”

Mizaistom took a deep gulp from his cold drink to cool off. He didn’t appreciate the reminder of whatever a Hunter’s “reputation” was supposed to be to people like Heriol, his friends, or Zepile himself.

“What has Zepile told you about me?” asked Mizaistom. His original plan of asking ten questions to subtly obtain the same information was starting to look like a waste of time. He might as well cut to the chase before his patience ran out.

“To be honest? I don’t even know your name,” said Heriol. He laughed nervously and stared at the back-lit rows of bottles behind the bar. He covered his mouth with his hand and rubbed his upper lip as he thought. Mizaistom waited. “He just called you ‘this guy’ and ‘that guy’ or ‘that asshole’. I had a theory who you were, though. If you want to hear it.” 

“What was your theory?”

“That maybe you were the friend he mentioned he was selling all those antiques for, but that the part about you getting married was a fabrication. Zepile doesn’t seem to like flesh collecting, so, maybe he’s the one who forced you to sell your collection, and you relented but gave him an impossible deadline.”

“And then he cheated on me.”

“Yeah.”

“I see,” said Mizaistom. He motioned for the bartender to make him another drink after he finished the first with one final, lingering sip. “What about the Bagliore party?” he asked as he set the glass down. It was promptly taken away. “What did Zepile tell you about that?”

“He says you were hired to be his bodyguard.”

“And how does that fit in with your narrative where we’re romantically involved?”

“That you got yourself hired to keep an eye on him, because you were suspicious about him. Then, you caught him. And now, we’re here.”

Mizaistom nodded. He almost smiled, albeit grimly. “I must admit,” he said, “that’s an interesting theory.”

“It’s an interesting story, anyway. Probably more dramatic than realistic.”

The second drink arrived. Mizaistom reached into his pocket for his wallet to count out the amount to pay in cash. “You’re overlooking an important piece of evidence that was just introduced a few minutes ago when I arrived,” he said as he flipped his wallet open. “When Zepile mentioned getting himself a new plus one for the party.

“I heard something about Hunters, but I wasn’t really listening to you both until he pulled me over to say hi.”

“Really?” asked Mizaistom, pausing as he counted coins to shoot Heriol a look. “You mean the guy you think Zepile is cheating on walks into the bar, and you aren’t even paying attention? That’s sloppy work, Heriol.”

Heriol stopped playing stupid immediately. 

“He said you had to protect him from Hunters.”

“That he did,” said Mizaistom, confirming it. “And why did I refuse to get my own invitation and my own plus one?”

“Because the Hunters would know who you were before you got there if you were on the invite list.”

“And, so? What does that tell you?”

“You fight Hunters.”

Mizaistom’s shoulders slumped in disbelief. “Occasionally, yes,” he said. “But, what makes more sense than just that? Seriously. It’s not complicated.”

Heriol didn’t have to think long. He went still as he realized the simple, most obvious answer and was subsequently disturbed by the prospect that it might be true. Mizaistom set the cash on the counter and reached back in his jacket to put the wallet away. When he looked back, Heriol was gaping at him, hardly breathing.

“ _You’re the Hunter._ ”

Mizaistom nodded once and pulled his license out from his coat pocket briefly, cupped in his hand so that only Heriol could see.

“A Hunter,” explained Mizaistom as he tucked the license away, “doesn’t typically need a Hunter to protect him from _anyone_ at a party. Zepile isn’t a Hunter, and I don’t appreciate this very dangerous rumor that he might be one. It attracts a dangerous crowd.”

Heriol managed a slow nod back, his mind racing behind an absent, unblinking stare. 

“Zepile…” gasped Heriol softly to himself, “…cheated on a Hunter.”

Mizaistom paused and took a very, very deep breath before continuing.

“More people would openly betray the trust of a Hunter than you’d think,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Hunters aren’t exactly immune to that kind of thing even when our associates know we’re Hunters from the start.”

“That still takes guts.”

“I wouldn’t call it guts.”

“Is that why Zepile ran away the moment you got here? You’re after him, aren’t you?”

“He hasn’t run away. He knows he can’t.”

“He’s been gone for a while. Are you sure?”

“He’s off wasting time in a corner somewhere, delaying the inevitable,” said Mizaistom. “What I’m more interested in is hearing if you’re going to accept his invitation.”

“His what?”

“Are you going to go to the party with him?”

“The Bagliores’?”

“Yes.”

Heriol winced and shrugged. “I thought about it before. He’s fun to hang out with. But, I don’t want to get between a Hunter and his boyfriend.”

“It’s not about me. He invited you. If he and I don’t come to an understanding, he might invite you again. What will you do?”

“Well, if he’s in danger…” said Heriol, looking away, though it was clear he’d already made a decision.

“You don’t want to be a casualty,” concluded Mizaistom for him.

“I don’t want to die for a party.”

“Smart. And who else has he spoken to?”

“In detail? No-one. He knows me best out of everyone here.” 

“Where did everyone else come from?”

“They’re people I know. I ran into Zepile by chance while waiting for them to get here. They don’t know about the party. Zepile and I were catching up, and he told me about the Bagliores’ party. My friends got here after that. When I introduced him to them, they knew about him and asked him if he was a Hunter as a joke, and Zepile just started kidding around about Hunters with everyone. That was it.”

“Good. That’s better than I hoped,” said Mizaistom. Heriol let out a sigh of relief. He kept staring at Mizaistom like Mizaistom was going to sprout claws and attack him the moment he looked away. Mizaistom wasn’t unfamiliar with such a reaction, though he found it annoying. He pretended not to notice.

“Although no-one will believe you, I prefer you don’t tell everyone Zepile’s involved with a Hunter,” said Mizaistom. Heriol nodded along emphatically. “To be clear, Zepile knows quite a few Hunters, not only me. The people threatening him know that he has connections to other Hunters, and that’s why he needs me to look after him now. However, you can say a Hunter told you Zepile isn’t a Hunter if you think it’ll help to quash the rumor that he is one himself. You seem to have a lot of friends. I’ll depend on you to help me with that, at least until Zepile’s work here in Baleno City has been completed. Can you do this?”

Heriol nodded again and glanced around, as if an assassin who’d followed Zepile to the bar was going to stroll by in bustling crowd of gamblers and drinkers. Mizaistom pretended not to see as well. He knew he was bullying Heriol unfairly, but he needed to use the fact that Hunters intimidated Heriol to his advantage.

“Alright then,” said Mizaistom. He finished a little more of his new drink and then stood up, abandoning the rest. “Now, come with me and help me get Zepile home. I’m not carrying him out of this casino, but he’s sitting on a bench near the men’s room acting like he’s too drunk to walk. I’ll need help getting him out of here and into my car to leave.”

Heriol didn’t stop to question how Mizaistom could’ve possibly known where Zepile was or what he was doing. He accepted the entire, strange situation as it unraveled and went with it. Mizaistom, meanwhile, was relieved Zepile hadn’t wandered farther than the reach of his En. If Zepile had stepped even a few centimeters past its limit, Mizaistom would’ve lost him in the crowd and been forced to search for him by more conventional means throughout the casino all over again.

Mizaistom allowed Heriol a pause to finish his drink, and then, they departed together without either a goodbye or explanation to Heriol’s friends. Zepile evidently caught sight of them approaching. Mizaistom sensed him lay down in a petty, last minute bid to appear asleep. Unfortunately for Zepile, Mizaistom and Heriol reached him before casino security could take him away to someplace that, while unable to stop Mizaistom from ultimately claiming responsibility for Zepile and escorting him to his hotel, would’ve at least created a large and lengthy inconvenience for everyone involved.

Mizaistom got out his phone and ordered his driver to come around to the nearest casino exit to pick him and Zepile up. Heriol, meanwhile, woke Zepile and told him he was leaving with his friend. When Zepile asked “with who?”, Heriol, who’d never learned Mizaistom’s name, simply grabbed Zepile’s chin and pointed his face in the direction of Mizaistom who was on the phone. Zepile swore loudly and told Heriol to leave him where he was. Heriol refused and proceeded to help him up. As well as he could, Zepile resisted.

Mizaistom came over to assist after he finished his call. He commended Heriol’s attitude and said he could see why Zepile had invited him to the Bagliore party for reasons other than his attractive face. Heriol awkwardly returned the compliment, saying something indistinct about Mizaistom’s beard. With even greater awkwardness, Mizaistom accepted it, but clarified that he hadn’t been trying to flatter Heriol, he’d just been stating a fact. Hoisted between them, Zepile told Heriol and Mizaistom to just go ahead and get a room already. In fact, maybe Heriol should peddle Mizaistom’s shit around town instead of him, and Zepile could just go home.

“His jokes about sleeping with a Hunter probably weren’t jokes, then, huh,” observed Heriol once they were downstairs. He was standing with Mizaistom on the curb as Mizaistom’s driver finished nudging Zepile the rest of the way into the backseat of the car. Mizaistom, recalling the banter of Heriol’s friends, grimaced.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped, and Heriol swiftly averted his gaze. “Zepile’s in a bad mood. Whatever he said, it was just an exaggeration, a diversion. He avoids topics by turning them into something ridiculous.”

“Well, he’s the one who started the whole joke that Hunters get turned on by what they hunt. Like, Kimberbee and bees, you know?”

Mizaistom gave up being the strong and stoic type and sighed, burying his face in his hand. “That…doesn’t surprise me,” he admitted with a groan.

“Now, I’m kind of wondering if he was speaking from experience.”

“He absolutely wasn’t,” said Miziastom firmly. 

“What do you hunt, anyway?”

Instead of telling Heriol to mind his own business, Mizaistom said, deadpan, “Truth and justice.”

“Oh,” said Heriol, disappointed. Mizaistom gave him a dark look that emerged charged with a faint surge of unintentional, malicious aura. Heriol winced like he’d been stung and backed away, confused. At the same moment, the driver signaled to Mizaistom that Zepile was properly buckled into his seat, and Mizaistom was now clear to enter the car so they could leave.

“Enjoy the rest of your night,” said Mizaistom to Heriol with a curt nod of farewell. Heriol waved back meekly and wished him the same. Mizaistom entered the backseat of the car beside Zepile just as Zepile slumped over two seats and invaded the third. The driver winced in apology as Mizaistom was forced to lift Zepile’s head and hands and push him away in order to buckle his own seatbelt.

“Zepile?” asked Mizaistom loudly, directly into Zepile’s ear. Zepile murmured something in the shape of a question back, indicating he was at least somewhat conscious despite his unwillingness to remain sitting up by his own power. “Are you actually drunk?” asked Mizaistom at the same volume. When Zepile didn’t answer, he repeated his name again. “Zepile? Excuse me? Are--?”

Whatever Mizaistom had been planning to say next was caught in his throat from the sudden, indignant disbelief as Zepile leaned heavily against his arm and then slipped down into the crook of his left elbow. Only the distance of an entire seat between them kept Zepile from laying completely in Mizaistom’s lap. Mizaistom made a face and glared out the window with his chin in his hand. He would’ve crossed his arms, had the left one been free. He was reminded abruptly how much he despised dealing with drunks.

“You’re a mess,” he said down to the dome of Zepile head he could see from the corner of his eye. He held very still as Zepile pressed his hands together and set them under his cheek like a pillow. He didn’t want to give Zepile the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. “Stop being an idiot. Do you have any idea where you are?”

“I’m in the backseat of a car with my head on your lap because when I sit up, I feel like I’m going to puke. You’re the idiot. You should’ve sat up front with the driver.”

Mizaistom agreed, but now, it was too late to change places, and he was too proud to do so regardless. He observed Zepile's condition cooly, imagining himself heartless and indifferent. Zepile had engaged in a small struggle to protect his eyes from the light of the many glittering facades of downtown theaters and restaurants passing by. After exhausting every possible, futile direction he could turn away, he lifted his head enough to pull Mizaistom’s arm out from under it. Mizaistom, in an oddly benevolent, or perhaps more resigned mood now that he’d accepted his own partial responsibility for the poor choice of sharing the backseat with a drunk, allowed Zepile to employ his forearm as a makeshift cover.

“Why were you drinking so much in the first place?” asked Mizaistom in a quieter, though no less judgemental, voice once Zepile was settled. He was tired and envied Zepile, who, though he was likely exaggerating his drunkenness, had the freedom to lay down and basically go to sleep if he wanted. “What did you think was going to happen to you that you had to get drunk to prepare yourself?” asked Mizaistom. He was determined to keep Zepile awake as long as possible. “How was that supposed help?”

“They don’t let you drink in jail,” said Zepile dryly. “I was getting ready.”

“You won’t go to jail,” said Mizaistom. “Don’t you get that? Didn’t I tell you that already? You won’t even stand trial. There are loopholes in place for Hunters, and you’re working with a Hunter.”

“Well, I remember the Hunter I work for told me explicitly not to break the law or else he’d make me regret it. So, I’m not sure those loopholes will protect me.”

“You can’t prove I did or didn’t tell you to do anything. It only matters what the Hunter tells people in this situation. If the Hunter says he ordered you to kill someone, you’ll get away with murder. That’s how it works.”

Zepile made a short sound, not as if he were angry, but as if he thought he must’ve misheard Mizaistom. Mizaistom caught the scratch of Zepile’s brow furrowing under his sleeve. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, in short, don’t worry about something like this. Morally, I don’t condone at all what you did. Legally, however, you’re fine. You’ll be fine.”

“No,” said Zepile. Mizaistom had misunderstood the most obvious thing. “What do you mean Hunters can get away with murder? Is that real?”

Mizaistom refrained from following through with the immediate urge to take his free hand and mockingly scratch the tips of his fingers over Zepile short, bristly hair as if he were a child or a good dog asking the right questions. They were too close in age for it not to come off as demeaning, though that would’ve naturally been part of Mizaistom’s intention had he gone through with it. The problem was, Mizaistom couldn’t help but reacted to drunks as if they were small children. It felt like what they deserved for their reckless, seemingly childish choice to put themselves in such a compromised state.

“Murder is a crime, but, a homicide isn’t always an unlawful act,” explained Mizaistom. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering except that it made him happy to explain such things. The sad reality was that if Zepile were truly drunk, he’d probably forget they’d even spoken in the morning, but it was still preferable to sitting in silence. 

“Theoretically, Hunters can be convicted of murder, but few courts exist that can enforce a ruling against a Hunter,” Miziastom went on. “Hunters and powerful Nen-users can therefore only be tried and sentenced with the cooperation of the Hunter Association. In such cases, since the Hunter Association has virtually all the power in the proceedings, the Association is allowed to make rulings following its own definition of law. That includes the Association’s own variation on what constitutes the punishable crime of murder.”

“Huh,” said Zepile. Mizaistom waited for a sarcastic comment or insult directed at him and all Hunters equally, but Zepile remained quiet. He lifted his arm to check if Zepile was asleep, but Zepile yanked it back down and grumbled at him about having a headache.

“So, what makes it murder?” asked Zepile, at last.

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“Who. In what manner. For what reason.” Mizaistom hesitated to think and then shrugged. “Maybe, also, how many.”

Zepile let out a short, skeptical snort in response. He turned over a little to free his arm. “Alright,” he said, gesturing with his free right hand while keeping Mizaistom’s own arm in place by the slack in Mizaistom’s sleeve with his left. “So, if you, a Hunter, kill another Hunter, then it’s murder. Right?”

“No,” said Mizaistom. “Almost no-one, not even a non-Hunter, will go to jail for only killing a Hunter.”

“...What?”

“If a person is found alone, murdered, and local law enforcement discovers during their investigation that the person was a Hunter, they typically won’t pursue the case much further. The Hunter Association will take over, but if the death has no connection to any other crimes or active cases, they’ll simply do a quick investigation to verify the Hunter’s identity, so that they can update their records on that Hunter’s status.”

“What if, on some crazy off-chance, people actually care about whoever died?”

“If there’s a friend or loved one who is deeply affected by the loss, they’ll have to take matters into their own hands. In fact, it’s something you could hire a Crime Hunter for.”

“So, is that your job?”

“It’s one element. In general, Crime Hunters investigate crimes that are beyond the scope or capabilities of regular law enforcement agencies. Although my non-Hunter associates are unaware of it, these cases often involve Nen, which automatically makes Hunters more qualified to solve them.”

“But then, how do you explain what happened if you can’t talk about Nen?”

“We bend the truth. For example, in the past, I’ve been forced to pose as a paranormal investigator rather than risk revealing the existence of Nen to my clients.”

“Paranormal? Like, the supernatural?”

“Nen is a supernatural force.”

“But you don’t tell them that.”

“No.”

“You tell them ghosts did it.”

Mizaistom was equal parts surprised and mortified by the small chuckle that escaped him at the image of himself trying to explain to a room full of police officers that a ghost was the perpetrator they were looking for. 

“I try to lean more towards pseudoscientific subjects like parapsychology,” he clarified, “but, that’s only when a case doesn’t involve Hunters. If it involves Hunters, I don’t have to pretend anything.”

“When it’s Hunters, that’s all you have to say,” agreed Zepile. “The cops are like ‘hey, how did this man punch this other man in half?’, and you’re just ‘Hunters.’ And they go with it.”

Part of Mizaistom was afraid to laugh, because he wasn’t sure if relating to the bullshit Zepile said made him guilty of revealing details about the existence of Nen to non-Hunters outside of an extreme crisis situation. “More or less,” he admitted dully. He distracted himself by looking out the window and down the traffic-laden street.

“Aren’t you worried people will catch on, though?” asked Zepile. “That they’ll realize there’s more to it than Hunters just being weird?”

Mizaistom shrugged. “Not particularly,” he said. “Sometimes we provide a nondisclosure agreement and make everyone sign it so everything looks more official, but we don’t actually enforce it. That’s usually enough. Even if the people who sign later break the agreement, who’s going to believe them? Most people don’t seem to question what we tell them, though. They just want the problem to go away.”

“Huh,” said Zepile. After a pause, he said, “You know what? I don’t blame them. I’d probably take a Hunter’s word for it if something weird and dangerous happened that I couldn’t explain. The quicker I can pass some creepy case on to a Hunter, the better. I’d want to skip right along to pretending it never happened.”

“It’s an understandable reaction,” said Mizaistom. “The Hunter wouldn’t blame you.”

“The Hunter better not,” scoffed Zepile. He let his hand fall back to his chest, and, for a little while at least, Mizaistom let him sleep.

It was almost a half hour before the hotel was finally in view. If Zepile hadn’t been in pieces sprawled over the backseat, Mizaistom would’ve opted to get out and walk the rest of the way. Fortunately, the next street they needed to turn down to reach the lobby’s side entrance was clearer of traffic than the main thoroughfare they’d been trapped along for most of the drive. Both Mizaistom and the driver breathed easier once they were finally able to park. The driver hurried from behind the wheel to help Mizaistom pull Zepile from the backseat, but they were pleasantly surprised as Zepile rose, undid his seatbelt, and opened the door, all of his own volition. He still needed Mizaistom to help guide him to his room, however, since wandering into the wide, bewilderingly bright hotel lobby in such an unsteady state might cause enough of a scene to get security called in to escort him instead.

“Considering what and the quantity I drank, I’m really not doing half bad,” said Zepile, breaking the humming quiet of the elevator trip up to his room floor. Without comment, Mizaistom pointed to a mirrored panel on the wall beside him.

“Okay,” Zepile ceded after getting a good look at himself. “I get it. But, I’m telling you, I look ten times worse than I am, and it’s mostly, I think, because my clothes are ruffled from lying down.”

Mizaistom was doubtful but kept it to himself as the elevator played a low tone, indicating they’d arrived to their floor. Zepile made a point of stepping out ahead of Mizaistom to lead the way, but Mizaistom stayed close behind to spot him. He steered him away from walls before he ended up dragging himself against them and annoying the occupants of the rooms on the other side. When they arrived to the door, Mizaistom used his own key to open it instead of waiting for Zepile to locate his. He then hung back to shut the door behind them as Zepile made a beeline for the bed and kicked off his shoes.

“I feel like shit,” announced Zepile into the empty room. He fell back into the bed and shut his eyes, not bothering to crawl under the covers. Mizaistom believed Zepile might go straight to sleep in that position, both feet still planted on the floor.

“Sleep it off,” said Mizaistom. “You’ll feel worse in the morning.”

Zepile didn’t answer, and tiredly, Mizaistom went to take a seat at the table. He moved one of the chairs closer to the tall, floor-to-ceiling window, so he could watch the endless stream of traffic creep past on the main street below. The light he’d left on above the door obstructed his view in the parts where it was reflected on the window pane. Within the reflection, he made out the outline of his own silhouette. He removed his horned hat and ran his hand over the damp hair that’d been trapped beneath it all day. 

Behind him in the bed, Zepile’s breathed heavily, on the verge of a rumbling snore that carried around the entire room. From outside, the muted roar of rolling traffic and pleading car horns reminded Mizaistom of a multitude of other rooms and apartments he’d stayed in around the world. He rarely felt alone in such places, no matter how big the city, not for an instant. Yet, right now he felt isolated staring out the window while Zepile slumbered in the worst possible sleeping position just out of sight.

“Oh shit, you’re still here,” exclaimed Zepile in shock after what felt to Mizaistom like a small eternity staring listlessly out the window. Mizaistom realized with a start that he’d fallen asleep in the chair. A dull, aching pain spread across his back and shoulders as he shifted his position, but outside was still night and the traffic as dense as when they’d arrived. He must’ve only dozed off for a few minutes, a half hour at most. Zepile was awake, though. Judging by the echoing, ceramic sound of a toilet’s tank refilling, he’d just returned from a trip to the bathroom.

“Just waiting out the worst of the traffic,” said Mizaistom with a groan as he pulled himself into an upright sitting position and began to search the floor for his hat. It was darker in the room than he remembered it being. Zepile had switched off the light above the door.

“Probably faster walking back than waiting around here,” said Zepile. “You’ll be up all night, unless you just want to crash on the other bed.”

Mizaistom thought about it, but was too tired. He caught himself staring blankly at Zepile as Zepile took off his coat and short scarf and tossed them into the closet. He cleared his throat, but Zepile didn't notice. Busily, Mizaistom searched for his hat instead, forgetting everything else. Zepile stumbled to the bed and laid down, untucking his shirt as he went, his head spinning too much at that point for him to continue changing his clothes. 

Mizaistom found his hat and set it on the table.

“How are you doing?” asked Mizaistom. Zepile didn’t move.

“I’ll be good.”

That hardly seemed likely. Zepile’s feet still dangled off the bed, almost touching the floor. He’d wake up with them in pins and needles if he remained in that position all night. Mizaistom felt the whole thing was absurd. He shouldn’t bother, should just go home now and leave Zepile to his fate. Walking back to his hotel would probably be faster than waiting out the traffic, as Zepile had said. He could send the driver home, as well, which was kinder than having him wait.

Zepile began to snore.

With a sudden urgency and sense of purpose, Mizaistom stood up and went to the head of Zepile's bed. He untucked and tugged aside the blankets, then reached over and grabbed Zepile under his arms, hauling him backwards and depositing him not too gently onto the pillows. Some of the loosened blankets had come up with Zepile, and Mizaistom went around yanking them out from under his dead weight so that he could toss them on top of Zepile and leave. He was in the awkward position of looming over Zepile to grab a corner of the blanket under Zepile's shoulder when Zepile opened his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asked, squinting up at Mizaistom blindly. His somewhat accusatory tone embarrassed Mizaistom, who was relieved the room was too dark for Zepile to see the look on his face.

“Putting you to bed. You’re a mess.”

“Feels like the energy is kinda that you’re going to make a move on me while I sleep.”

Mizaistom sighed and shook his head. Zepile seemed to have grown drunker as he’d slept. His liver must’ve been having a field day.

“Drunk people think everyone is making a move on them,” said Mizaistom, moving out of reach in case Zepile got any ideas. “Get over it.”

“Where’s your hat?”

Mizaistom pointed with a nod towards the window. “It’s on the table.”

“Your head looks tiny with the suit on without the hat.”

“Yes. I know. I’ve heard that before.”

“When?”

“Whenever I take off my hat.”

Zepile laughed. “Well, it’s true.”

“Maybe. I guess. Go to sleep now, Zepile. It’s late.”

Mizaistom shifted his weight to take a step back.

“Wait,” said Zepile. Mizaistom waited. “Hey, so. Doesn’t this remind you of something?”

Mizaistom wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “Of what?” he asked reluctantly.

“When Senritsu did the Nen thing, and then you had to hang around all day while I was dead.”

“It’s similar.”

“What did you even do all day?”

“Work.”

“What will you do now?”

“Go home.”

“For what?”

“To sleep.”

“You sleep? For real?”

“Of course I sleep.”

“Ah, well, goodnight, then. Go to sleep.”

“Goodnight.”

Zepile grabbed the edge of the blankets bunched up beside him and pulled them up to cover his shoulder as he rolled to face away from Mizaistom. Mizaistom reached out to pat Zepile on the head again like a child, but realized what he was doing and pat him in a less condescending manner on the back of his arm instead. He left the bedside and went to collect his hat. Then, he moved the chair back to the table and pulled the drapes shut. Using his En to navigate through the darkness, he made his way to the door. Refusing himself even the briefest look back, he left. 


	20. Apology

Mizaistom didn’t arrive early, but he did arrive with coffee better than what the hotel room coffee maker was capable of brewing. He set the cup on the table before crossing over to the window and throwing open the drapes. Late morning sunlight burst into the room, much to the consternation of a half-conscious Zepile lying in bed.

“Why the hell are you always here?” moaned Zepile before burrowing his face into his only pillow and turning over. The rest of the pillows had been knocked to the floor as he’d tossed and turned all morning, holding his head in his hands and swearing at himself, as well as Mizaistom, Leorio, and Kurapika, who he blamed by association.

“Good morning,” said Mizaistom. He was unperturbed by Zepile’s understandably poor mood. “You might not be at one hundred-percent yet, but the worst ought to have passed by now. I brought coffee to help wake you up.”

“I remember Leorio told me to rehydrate when I’m…well he said to drink water between drinks as I went, but I didn’t do that,” mumbled Zepile to himself as he dragged his body up into a reluctant sitting position at the corner of the bed nearest to Mizaistom. “Anyway, he said the headache is from dehydration. Coffee can dehydrate you more. It’s a diuretic.”

“Are you saying you don’t want the coffee?”

“Hell no. Give it to me,” said Zepile, holding out one hand while covering his face with the other. “I’m literally dying.”

As Zepile blew into his coffee and took a few small, cautious sips, Mizaistom went back to the door. He open the hall closet and removed the coat and gloves he was still wearing. Zepile choked on a gasp with coffee in his mouth, interrupting the peaceful quiet of the morning with an ugly fit of sputtering and coughing. He was on his side laughing once he could breathe again.

“You even have a tracksuit in a cow pattern?” he asked, tearing up. “Where do you even buy this stuff?”

“Physical fitness is paramount to a Hunter’s survival in battle,” said Mizaistom. He crossed his arms as Zepile wiped his eyes and offered the least sincere apology for laughing too hard that Mizaistom had ever heard. “It takes diligence to stay in top form,” continued Mizaistom over Zepile’s occassional snorts of laughter. “While you were sleeping, I used the gym downstairs.”

“Don’t you have a business to run?” asked Zepile as he took his coffee back from the bedside table. He popped the lid off the cup and swirled the contents around before taking another sip. “Seems a waste of time to stick around here.” 

“My current assignment is to look after you for the Bagliores. My shift started five minutes ago.”

“Oh. So, you’re seriously doing that, huh?”

“We have a contract. You’ve been under my watch since you were moved to this hotel.”

Zepile nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “Is that how you figured out what I was up to, then?” 

Mizaistom hesitated, and Zepile motioned that he didn’t need to bother explaining. “It’s fine,” he said. “I never really believed I was really going to get away with it in the end. You’re a Crime Hunter, after all. It was only a matter of time.”

Mizaistom took a deep breath to steel himself before saying what'd been on his mind all yesterday and up to this morning while working out downstairs. “You were doing what had to be done to fulfill the objectives of the mission,” he admitted. “It was selfish of me to pretend this mission, considering the in-group nature of the human flesh collecting black market, could be accomplished otherwise. I should’ve allowed you free reign to do as you recommended from the start.”

“Honestly? Yeah. You should’ve,” said Zepile with a shrug. He set the finished coffee on the bedside table and then, in a sudden burst of energy, scratched his scalp roughly all over, trying to wake himself up. “But hey, also,” he added without looking over, “it was…not a smart choice. I couldn’t be bothered to persuade you to agree with me, so, I took matters into my own hands. That choice could’ve turned out bad for me. It was dangerous. I was foolhardy. There could’ve been a lot of trouble.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“I kind of want to apologize for going behind your back, though, especially since you’re suddenly so cool about it now...for some reason,” said Zepile. He sounded a little suspicious, but wasn’t curious enough to ask. After someone made such an extreme, about-face turn on a subject, it wasn’t best to interrogate them about it. There was nothing to gain, especially because asking questions and expressing too much doubt was the fastest way to make the other person doubt themselves

“More than apologizing for anything, though,” said Zepile, “I want to make it very clear that I won’t do anything like that again. I can’t go toe-to-toe with Hunters and Nen-users, so, excluding you from what I’m doing leaves me totally stranded. And just…I’m a normal guy no-one super cares about in the sense that, if I piss off the wrong Hunter, it probably won’t be considered a murder. You know?”

Mizaistom was impressed Zepile remembered their conversation from the night before. It wasn’t a comfortable silence that fell between them after Zepile's fairly bleak statement, but there was an underlying, complicit understanding that they were finally on the same approximate page. It was reassuring. Still, Mizaistom didn’t voice the first thing that came to his mind like a knee-jerk reaction, which was a promise that if anyone even attempted to kill Zepile, Mizaistom wouldn’t allow the person to get away with it unpunished. Zepile, likewise, didn’t bother to utter the words “I’m sorry” for anything he’d done specifically, because he wasn’t really that sorry for having done most of it. All he regretted was the great, unnecessary risk he’d taken that could’ve jeopardized the mission.

“Oh, hey, you put those milks in here, didn’t you?” asked Zepile a little while later once he’d finished his coffee. He held up the empty cup in question as he stood from the bed. “Those ones you always have? Right?”

“A few,” admitted Mizaistom.

“Awesome. And generous. Those aren’t cheap.”

“You said liked them.”

“Really? I told you that?”

“It was a while ago.”

Zepile compensated for his embarrassment at having forgot by scrunching up his face and making a show of trying to recall when he could’ve possibly have mentioned it. “I don’t remember,” he mused before shrugging and giving up. “Weird.”

Mizaistom feigned indifference and said it didn’t matter. He took his usual seat, the one near the window, where he waited as Zepile cleaned up and got ready for what little remained of the day ahead. He hardly moved as he stared out, lost in thought, in a perfect reproduction of the position he'd been in the night before while watching traffic. Zepile assumed Mizaistom had dozed off and didn't announce himself when he emerged from the bathroom a half-hour later wearing fresh clothes and filling the room with the powdery scent of hotel soap. He nearly jumped out of his skin a second later when Mizaistom spoke up.

“If you have any questions about Nen, such as the extent of what a user is capable of, or if you’re curious about Hunters in general, I’ll answer. In exchange, instead of training with Leorio or Senritsu when we get back from our mission to the Dark Continent, if you still want to take the Hunter Exam, I’ll train you for it. As a Two-star Hunter, I’m more qualified than they are. You’re virtually guaranteed to pass with me as your instructor.”

No answer came to Zepile’s mind right away. All he did was stare at Mizaistom while one of his hands moved in small circles vaguely, as if to make up for the lack of words leaving his mouth.

“There’s no rush,” added Mizaistom. Zepile’s hand dropped, and he relaxed his shoulders with obvious relief. “Even if I start teaching you now, you won’t be near ready to take the exam this year. It takes some time.” Mizaistom traced the blotchy edge of the cow print pattern covering his knee with his thumb. “But, I can introduce you to a few concepts you can use to strengthen your control over the aura you already use naturally. Since, well, even if you never take the exam, you might like to at least see the trace your aura leaves behind in your work.”

Mizaistom nodded towards the satchel sitting on an armchair across the room. Beneath it, carelessly set aside when Zepile had moved in, was the cow sculpture.

“So, what do you say?” asked Mizaistom. “Up until now, I’ve only focused on the danger of Nen, because I needed you to be afraid of it. I thought it would make you more cautious and force you to defer to me whether you wanted to or not, to keep you under control. That didn’t work.”

Zepile burst into laughter for a second time. The mirthful energy didn’t fit his so-far uneasy gaping and staring, but now he was laughing so hard he had to sit down at the foot of the bed nearest him. Mizaistom watched without expression, but wondered how someone still so markedly worn out from a night of overindulgence could find much to laugh about. He couldn't lie; it felt a little personal.

“Of course scaring me was never going to work,” said Zepile after catching his breath. “I’ve been cognizant of the danger of Nen for quite a while now. Once I realized it wasn't just nice kids like Gon and Killua, but pretty much every Hunter that used Nen, I kind of regretted Gon having ever told me about it." The smile fell from his lips. "In case you haven’t noticed," he added, "Nen is terrific for intimidating people with. I’ve been threatened twice since I got here. Three, if I count you.”

“Someone other than Linsen threatened you with Nen? Who was it?”

Zepile winced. He'd slipped and said more than he'd intended. “A first-time client on his guard," he said dismissively. "He hasn’t used it since.”

“Is he a Hunter?”

Zepile tsked and waved a disapproving finger at Mizaistom. The mocking tone was forced this time, only just enough to tell Mizaistom that Zepile wasn’t going to say another word. “Forget, Mizaistom. I’m not going to snitch on my client to the Nen police. You can investigate that one on your own.”

Mizaistom was already planning to. At that very moment, he was going over a list in his mind of Zepile’s clients, trying to guess which could most likely be the culprit. Once he was back in his office later that night, the investigation would commence in earnest.

“Oh, by the way,” said Mizaistom after the pause. Zepile was throwing away the empty coffee cup he'd left on the dresser. “It’s a bit late to say it, but...it’s Mizai.”

“What?”

“Call me Mizai. The people I work closest with don’t call me by my whole name. They just call me Mizai.”

“Oh. Okay,” said Zepile, shooting him a fleeting, somewhat uncomfortable smile. “I’m still just Zepile. To everyone.”

“That’s understandable,” said Mizaistom. He sat up straighter. “Now, are you interested in Nen? You don’t have to learn it. You can simply ask about it.”

“I’m not sure,” said Zepile, grabbing his chin. He stared hard into the floor, thinking it over.

“Do you even want to be a Hunter?”

“I’m…not sure.”

Mizaistom wasn’t surprised. Perhaps the one thing Zepile had learned throughout this entire mission was how dangerous and frightening the job of being a Hunter truly was. Anyone on the fence would decide against it once they’d experienced everything Zepile had gone through.

“I guess I’d like to know about my own Nen,” said Zepile, though he didn't sound very sure. “Gon and Killua told me I used it on my counterfeits in the past, but I have no idea how that even works. Maybe you can tell me what happens, what’s so special about it. It’s pretty crazy to think I have some whole other ability, this innate skill that other people can’t use, and I didn’t even know it. Hell, I look at my own work, and all I see is junk. You and Killua and Gon, though.... You guys see something else.”

“It’s not a bad place to start,” said Mizaistom. “As long as you agree not to sell your work as a counterfeit, I’d like to see you fake an antique. Nen Geniuses are unique in how they organically tap into and employ their aura without any conscious effort. If I can get an idea of how you already use Nen when you aren’t trying, it can help me decide a course for you in the future, for if or when you decide you want to learn how to use Nen by choice.”

“Cool. We’ll do that, then. Since I’ve pretty much sold most of the items you gave me, my schedule’s more or less open for the next few days. We can start whenever you have time. Just let me know in advance.”

“We can begin today.”

Zepile didn't take Mizaistom seriously right away. His head tilted to the side in question, wondering if now that they were on more familiar terms, "Mizai" was joking with him. A smile started to spread out slowly from the corner of his mouth. A moment later he was on his feet, grinning.

“Sure, Mizai,” he said, emphasizing the newly reduced name. “Let’s go antique some brass or iron, distress some furniture, and then, pass it off to unsuspecting strangers as finds from our great aunt’s attic.”

“I said we’re not selling it, Zepile.”

“What if my Nen only works if I’m intending to sell it?”

Mizaistom crossed his arms and gave Zepile his best disgruntled look. Zepile, however, laughed at him and exclaimed he’d need more coffee. There was a long day of antiquing ahead, and he'd already wasted half of it hungover. That meant they were off to a pretty good start. Crawling out of bed hungover to spend the remained of the day working on a counterfeit was a a very important first step in his method. There was no doubt they were well on their way to unlocking his full Nen potential.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out with my new schedule I only have time to proofread on the weekends. This is why the updates are now once a week. I don't know how I was managing a chapter every two days when this fic started. I do remember it stressing me out a lot. My memory is just a blur of being constantly stressed, every day, trying to find time.
> 
> Now, I have zero stress! (Or well, zero stress for updating this fic....)


	21. Counterfeit

Despite having been the one to come up with the plan to show Mizaistom how to counterfeit an item, Zepile was struggling. It was impossible to not fall victim to a guilty conscience when Mizaistom, a paradigm of truth and justice, was his audience. He didn’t want to admit his unexpected performance anxiety to Mizaistom, so, he made up a better excuse Mizaistom didn't fall for.

“It’s just been so long since I’ve crafted a counterfeit,” said Zepile apologetically. “All I keep doing is looking for fakes and telling myself not to buy them, instead of thinking how I can improve and pass off an especially good fake as the real deal.”

Mizaistom nodded as he studied the intricate design painted along the inside rim of a small ceramic egg cup, one of a set of five. He held it up in the dull light of the shop, looking for a mark or sign that might indicate why it was imbued with the faintest traces of its maker’s aura. Without paying much attention to Zepile, he said, “This isn’t the time to stress how morally upstanding you are now compared to how you were in the past. Find something you can work with, and we can go. I’m not judging you.”

Zepile scoffed and continued down the aisle of the packed and cluttered antique shop, leaving Mizaistom with the egg cups. 

They’d traveled to a town twenty minutes outside of Baleno City to decrease the likelihood of Zepile being recognized. For good measure, Mizaistom had put on a more casual version of his disguise for the Bagliore party. This mostly meant that he was wearing glasses and zero cow-print items. With an insincere level of enthusiasm, Zepile had marveled at the change and proclaimed Mizaistom to be a whole other person when he's seen him. Mizaistom had ignored him utterly.

“Here’s the thing I didn’t tell you about counterfeits,” said Zepile as they left the shop fifteen minutes later, empty handed. Zepile had skipped his regular lunch hour, so he claimed hunger was distracting him, and it was better to leave and get something to eat. “Counterfeiting can be a lot of things. It can be a workshop churning out perfect replica vases to sell to tourists in an antiques bazaar. Making the reproductions themselves isn’t technically a crime. Whether or not it’s criminal depends on if the seller is marketing the items as reproductions, or as authentic antiques, since they’re mostly selling to uninformed buyers. Obviously, antiques are worth more. It’s tempting to lie.” 

“Is that the sort of counterfeiting you did?” asked Mizaistom. He’d removed his glasses and was inspecting the lenses as they walked, searching for a speck of dust that’d been bothering him since they’d stepped into full daylight. “You sold reproductions?”

“Yes and no,” said Zepile. “I’m not an artisan or craftsman by trade, so, I’ve never had a whole workshop or a production line going. I’m not that efficient, and I don’t usually have accomplices who’d make that kind of operation feasible. Instead, I try to do what we’re doing now. To find something I can repurpose or dress up and then pass off as a true antique. Once that's done, it's all about locating the right buyer. That’s more the hard part, really. Selling anything to anyone is hard, much less selling them counterfeit antiques.”

“Hm. I see,” said Mizaistom, rubbing his chin. Evidently, he didn’t approve of what he was seeing one bit.

The two kept en eye out for someplace to have lunch. Zepile insisted it was too cold to buy something quick they'd have to eat outside when Mizaistom suggested a convenience store near the antique shop. Antique hunting, Zepile reminded him, even if it was only hunting for quality reproductions and fakes, was a time-consuming task. He’d already warned Mizaistom before they’d left Baleno City they’d be out until evening going from shop to shop. A quick lunch wouldn’t make a long day feel any shorter. Mizaistom still thought it was a waste of time. In the spirit of compromise, Zepile announced he wasn’t picky about what he ate. They entered one of the first sit-down restaurants they came across without even checking the menu, and ordered almost as soon as they’d sat down.

“So, I’ve told you one way to counterfeit,” said Zepile after lifting the window open a crack to smoke. “In addition to misrepresenting fakes, counterfeiting can also be someone putting a lot of work into extensively researching a item from a collection that was lost or stolen or stored away, and then claiming to have ‘rediscovered’ that item after creating a piece based on the documentation.” 

“That seems like a waste of a diligent and meticulous nature,” said Mizaistom gruffly. Zepile nodded with a knowing grin before lighting his cigarette, causing Mizaistom’s frown to deepen. “It’s a shame to see such industry and creativity turned to crime.” He fired Zepile a pointed look.

“It can get worse than that,” promised Zepile. “It can also be someone studying the style of a famous artist or work of a specific culture, and then, creating original works mimicking that style in order to pass the works off as previously ‘lost’ examples. It’s notoriously common in the art market. Antiques can be a bit more difficult to pull off, since style isn’t enough; you need to use very specific materials. With fake antiques and artifacts, you have to sell the age and provenance as well as the aspect. In fact, if you can fool someone on the age and provenance of an item, you can often get away with several mistakes in the actual work itself. People underestimate the lengths a serious counterfeiter will go to, and often rely more on age than real fact checking.”

“Age itself can be faked?”

“Absolutely. Not everything old is worth anything, and you can use something cheap to make a fake seem older. For example, with Kakin porcelain vases, counterfeiters will take the unglazed bottom of a damaged or less valuable vase, and then stick it on a reproduction of a much more valuable vase. Later, the item’s age will be tested by taking a sample from the unglazed bottom, so the vase, or rather the bottom of the vase, checks out as being the proper age.”

“That’s…fairly ingenious. I wouldn’t expect less from a professional counterfeiter.”

“Yeah, except now, if anything, that and other equally ingenious methods have just about ruined the market for Kakin porcelain vases, because no-one trusts them anymore. If you want to sell any at this point, you need a strong case for the provenance of the item, and even that’s not a guarantee it’ll be authentic.”

Mizaistom nodded and grew increasingly thoughtful. Although he didn’t like to think about how Zepile had acquired the knowledge he was so blithely relayed between pauses to blow smoke out of the narrow crack of the opened window, he was eager to hear more. It was a natural, professional interest, he was sure, but he didn’t want it mistaken for too much enthusiasm. He set his face in a perpetual scowl as he listened just in case.

“The provenance is just the history of an item, correct? You could make it up, lie,” said Mizaistom. “No wonder no-one trusts an antiques dealer.”

“True. But blaming the dealers and traders doesn’t fix the problem, because it’s also true that the easiest counterfeit to sell is one you don’t have to make up a provenance for. You know, like when the legitimate, documented owner of the real deal is the one commissioning you to make and sell a fake for them. Because that happens, too. And that’s where you can make a whole lot of money. So really, it’s not only the counterfeiters themselves taking advantage of people. You can’t trust anyone out there.”

Mizaistom gritted his teeth, thinking of the audacity of legitimate owners betraying the buyer’s trust in a seemingly fair sale. Nowhere was safe. Nothing was sacred. The entire market was awash in criminals and deceitful activity. 

“How does anyone avoid fakes?” asked Mizaistom in honest aghast. “It seems like everything about antiques it set against an honest buyer.” 

“Research,” suggested Zepile, as though picking the first word that came to him. He shrugged when Mizaistom narrowed his eyes. “It’s classic, boring research. Know the market and keep up to date on counterfeiting measures. After you’ve made sure you’re absolutely as informed as you can possibly be, you just make your best, most informed decision. If you still have a bad feeling about an item or a sale, you learn to tell yourself no and let that piece go. It’s not easy, but it’s smart, and it’s safe.” 

Zepile offered Mizaistom a small half smile before take the last draw of his cigarette and stamping it out in the ashtray beside him.

“Ah yes, and don’t get greedy,” added Zepile as he stood up halfway to shut the window. “A good rule of thumb is that if it’s a bargain, it’s probably too good to be true.”

The food arrived. Zepile's appetite had returned with ravenous urgency after the long, hungover morning he’d spent in bed, nauseated to the point he could barely stand a glass of water. Mizaistom only finished half his plate in to time Zepile took to inhale his own. He chose to leave what he hadn't finished behind in favor of time. Zepile lit another cigarette once they were outside and complained about how dark it was for late afternoon. Streetlamps where already coming on by the time they finished perusing the next bric-a-brac shop with “antiques” written on its storefront. After that, they tried five more shops in the same area before Zepile decided it was time to go home and call it a day. On the drive back to Baleno City, Mizaistom mused that most shops seemed to use the word “antique” merely to denote a plethora of useless, used items for sale, whether they were antique or not. Zepile laughed and commended him on his acute observational skills, clearly a result of years of prime, case-breaking criminal detective work, no doubt. 

“We have time to swing by an art supply store,” said Zepile after glancing at his watch when he saw they’d entered the city limits. “Instead of faking an antique, it’ll be faster at this point for me to just forge some art.”

“It’s not only antiques you counterfeited in the past?”

“Counterfeiting is a related skill set to art forgery, so, I’ve dabbled in that, too. They say half the art market is made up of forgeries these days. I believe it, too. I can’t tell real art from fake art. Antiques are easier to classify. You have more stuff you can compare them to, time periods you can fit things into. Art is...it’s art. I dunno.”

Zepile trailed off, prompting Mizaistom to look over. Zepile took a moment to notice, and cleared his throat awkwardly once he did.

“Sorry. Anyway,” said Zepile quickly. “The sculpture in my hotel room isn’t a counterfeit antique, it’s an original piece created in the style of a guy I used to work for. He was well known nationally for a series of paintings of a distinctive, hot pink cat, but before that got big, he worked for a collectable model horse brand as one of their designers. That’s what he truly enjoyed. He did little sculptures of farm animals for fun on the side and sold a few when he got popular, but since he wasn’t famous for those, it was pretty easy to make some myself in his style and sell them as his.”

“Basically, you counterfeited the work of your own friend?” asked Mizaistom with a disapproving snort. “You have no shame.”

“Actually, an uncle.”

Mizaistom pursed his lips, even more appalled. He had to remind himself he wasn't supposed to judge, but right now that was almost impossible. “I’m…sure you had your reasons,” he said, his words emerging stilted and vague between gritted teeth. Stealing from family was a more touchy subject than stealing from friends. Although it was still a crime, personal family matters weren’t supposed to be any of Mizaistom’s business.

“I had Leorio look at his work,” continued Zepile, as if he hadn’t noticed Mizaistom’s reaction. It was a long drive back to the hotel, and he didn’t like sitting in silence. “Of course, there’s traces of his Nen all over those cats. Faint, but there. Anything he ever sculpted, on the other hand, is practically doused in aura. Considering he taught me most of the skills I later used to make counterfeits, well, who knows? Maybe that’s why I use Nen.”

“It’s plausible,” admitted Mizaistom after some thought. “The ability to use Nen can manifest in unpredictable ways. Every case is unique. If you followed his methods exactly, and he was already utilizing Nen at that time, then, he perhaps could’ve inadvertently taught you to use Nen yourself.”

Zepile laughed at the idea and shook his head. He smirked when he caught Mizaistom's eye. “I bet you’re relieved to learn my Nen use might not be totally derived from an unwavering dedication to breaking the law.”

Mizaistom refused to humor Zepile with a response while Zepile continued to smirk at him knowingly from across the backseat. When they reached the shop, Zepile was forced to collect his art supplies in the shop by himself. Mizaistom waited in the car, musing over whether or not Zepile developing Nen in an honest way, which he’d only later bent towards criminality, changed anything at all about Mizaistom’s opinion of him. The intention behind a Nen ability played a critical role in understanding the user. If Zepile had originally developed his Nen for improving artwork rather than aiding in deception, that said something positive about him Mizaistom wanted very much to believe. It meant Zepile wasn’t an outright criminal first and foremost, skilled at counterfeiting to the point he’d bent his entire aura, his creative life energy itself, into his works. The facility with Nen had come first. By circumstance, criminality had followed after.

All the same, it annoyed Mizaistom how suddenly relieved he felt, as if he'd been holding his breath all this time without noticing. Zepile had been right. Intentions, Mizaistom reminded himself, whatever those intentions were, ceased to matter once someone broke the law. Cheating and stealing were also highly indicative of the kind of person someone was, regardless of how innocently they’d developed a Nen ability. 

Mizaistom was still lost in thought when Zepile returned to the car with a bag full of supplies. Zepile greeted him, but Mizaistom only grunted in answer without looking over. He didn’t want to end up staring, which was a bad habit he’d been called out for enough times to know better. He wished he could let the matter go, but the “problem of Zepile” refused stop turning around in his mind. It wouldn’t be fair to hold Zepile’s criminal actions against him without considering the whole picture, including the fact that Zepile had stopped counterfeiting in recent years. The might be a point in his favor, except...he hadn’t stopped because he’d developed a conscience about what he’d been doing, but rather, because he'd become unnerved by his outstanding success. He wasn't actually remorseful. At the same time, Zepile’s somewhat _diminished_ conscience and disregard for rules had allowed him to take specific, unselfish actions that put him at great personal risk for the sake of much greater goal. It was an approach somewhat more akin to the actions of a Hunter than a criminal, which offended Mizaistom. Maybe, he suspected, he was just inventing excuses to console himself for having forgiven Zepile too easily.

“I think maybe I bought too much,” mumbled Zepile as he double checked his purchases. “You’re paying me back for this, right?” he asked. When Mizaistom didn’t answer, he reached out and punched him lightly on the shoulder to get his attention. 

“Hey, Earth to Mizai,” said Zepile. He waved his hand around, but couldn’t reach the space right in front of Mizaistom’s eyes while buckled up. “Hello!”

Mizaistom looked over, finally, unamused. “It’s fine,” he said, glancing down at the bags clustered around Zepile’s feet. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about the the tube of paint that burst and is spilled all over your shoes?” asked Zepile, unsure. Mizaistom shot to attention and leaned forward the check, but there wasn’t a drop of paint spilled anywhere in the backseat.

“Wake up, Mizai,” chided Zepile, shaking his head and a finger at him in disappointment. “This is embarrassing.”

Mizaistom pursed his lips and once again turned away. At least it was better than being called out for staring. Maybe.


	22. Nen Lesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take this Nen stuff with a grain of salt.

Though unsure it would work, Zepile had decided the fastest thing for him to make would be a scaled down replica of the cow sculpture already in his hotel room. He wouldn’t need armatures to support it if were tiny, which would save time, and he wouldn’t have to look for a model of anything else among what little the hotel room had to offer for inspiration. All Mizaistom had to do was sit back, watch, and wait for the Nen to happen. Zepile couldn’t promise it would.

“Are you already checking for Nen?” asked Zepile, a little nervous as he unpacked the bag of art supplies. “Will I know when you are?”

“You won’t know,” said Mizaistom. While Zepile was setting up his workstation, Mizaistom invited himself to a seat in the room’s largest armchair. “The ability that allows me to see Nen only affects myself. Ironically, you need to already know how to use Nen in order to really see it.”

“But you’ll tell me if you see me use Nen, right?”

“Not at first, no. Nen requires a great deal of focus to use, even when it’s used inadvertently. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your concentration.”

“So, I’m just going to be by myself here, working, and you’re going to be sitting over there, not saying a word and watching?” asked Zepile. He paused, thought about the situation, and didn’t seem to like what crossed his mind. “Huh,” he muttered, but didn’t say more. Even if he didn’t like it or thought it was weird, he wasn’t all that surprised.

Mizaistom removed the dark, brimmed hat he’d been wearing to go antiques shopping and scratched an itch on his scalp. “Just try not to divide your attention for the first half hour at least,” he offered as a compromise. “Then, when that’s over, maybe you can start asking me about Nen if you want. Is that okay?”

“I guess,” said Zepile. He pulled the cow sculpture closer and studied it with a doubtful eye before frowning and adjusting the light source. “We might as well get started.” With a faint huff of a sigh, he unwrapped the first packet of sculpting clay. Mizaistom, meanwhile, put the new hat back on and comfortably crossed his legs as he leaned into the armchair, settling in for a long half hour of silent observation. 

Mizaistom didn’t need to read the wavering, irresolute quality of Zepile’s aura to see how much Zepile was struggling to ignore him and his quiet scrutiny. He was wasting a lot of time kneading bits of clay aimlessly while scowling down with forced determination at the sculpture he needed to copy. He was trying as hard as he could not to think about his audience, even when the cow subject itself served as its own unwanted reminder. Mizaistom’s perfect silence was a little helpful, perhaps. Unbeknownst to Zepile, Mizaistom had gradually slipped into a state of Zetsu, blending perfectly into the emptiness of the hotel room around them. 

Unfortunately, Zepile was uncomfortable enough that even the unnatural silence itself shattered his concentration. During one of the few, short moments in which he’d successfully managed to drive Mizaistom from his mind, he’d realized with a jolt that he couldn’t hear Mizaistom breathing. He’d looked up, startled, feeling as if he were alone, only to see Mizaistom staring back, unchanged from his original position in the armchair. Mizaistom wordlessly arched a brow in question when their eyes met, and Zepile, making a sharp, annoyed sound at himself, hastily looked away without giving an explanation.

“So, anything?” asked Zepile, finally checking the clock after forty-five minutes of agitated sculpting and muttering at his work. He had a fairly well-shaped miniature of the cow statue in front of him, though it was still far away from being an exact duplicate. Some of the later detail work would involve fine-tipped sculpting tools, which Zepile lacked, though he’d already improvised where he could with odds and ends collected from around the hotel room. He looked over to Mizaistom expectantly when Mizaistom didn’t answer his question. At last, Mizaistom offered a small nod, and Zepile let out a sigh of relief as he collapsed back into his seat in weary triumph, thanking god.

“When working on the angle of the bent leg, you began to exert Nen from your hands until you mastered its approximate shape and moved on.”

“Cows and horses have tricky legs,” said Zepile, only half hearing Mizaistom and nodding vaguely.

“The effort you were forced to exhibit there helped to focus your Nen use. When I see the model, that part is imbued with more aura than the rest.”

“Huh,” said Zepile. He squinted down at the bent leg of the miniature, but obviously saw nothing there. “I didn’t notice a thing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nope. Just plodding along, pushing clay around. Nothing too special. That part was just a little tricky, since the leg bears no weight. That’s it,” said Zepile. He tore his gaze away from the leg with an irritated tsk and shut his eyes, reaching up a hand to massage the space around the bridge his nose. He sunk lower into the seat. “Dunno how I feel about my Nen giving away all the parts of a piece I struggled with, though,” he said before bursting out with a short, wry chuckle at his own expense. “As if I had to put forth a superhuman effort to shape a leg. Damn.”

“The piece is incomplete, and you were distracted,” said Mizaistom. He intended his words to come off as a bit of consolation, but he ended up sounding condescending in spite of himself. “If you’d been applying a consistent level of focus since beginning the project, perhaps there wouldn’t have been such a notable concentration of aura in one place compared to the rest. The matter also comes down to your intention, or goal, and here, your intention was muddled. If you’d been working on the sculpture sincerely, your will and your intention would’ve been better aligned, and your Nen would’ve been utilized more consistently. As the matter stands, however, you knew from the start you weren’t going to complete this project, and that inhibited your natural ability to call forth your Nen to assist you.”

Zepile, who appeared to be nodding off, opened his eyes enough to shoot Mizaistom a disgruntled look before shutting them again. “I can’t tell if you’re just telling me this so I know it,” he said, “or you’re getting on to me for apparently not trying hard enough.”

“Well, then, I suppose I should say that, given the circumstances, I’m impressed you were able to use any noticeable amount of Nen at all.”

Zepile snorted. “Ah, okay, so, I did a good job then?” he asked. “Good thing I’m apparently so out of practice with the legs of farm animals that it takes a monumental effort on my part to sculpt just one. When I look at it, I still think it looks awful, and you’re telling me I had to use Nen to make something that bad? Damn. I’m starting to have doubts about how great Nen really is.”

“You did your best.”

Zepile sarcastically agreed he must have as he leaned forward just enough to reach over and turn off the extra lamp he’d set up nearby. The feeling in the room grew closer as the shadows darkened. 

“You can resume working if you’d like,” said Mizaistom. “Maybe you don’t want to leave the piece incomplete now that you’ve started.”

“No,” said Zepile around a short, stifled yawn. “If you’ve seen me use Nen, then I’m done here.” He pull himself up by the arms of the chair and, once sitting straight again, began to clear the table. “You’re right that I wasn’t planning to actually finish this. My aura didn’t lie.”

“Aura’s typically don’t,” agreed Mizaistom with a solemn nod. “Do you need help tidying up?” he asked, already uncrossing his legs in preparation to rise. 

“Hand over the shopping bag on the floor over there,” said Zepile. He waved in the bag’s general direction. Mizaistom obediently picked it up, along with a few other items that'd fallen and rolled out of reach while Zepile had been sculpting. He set everything on the table, before moving on to collect some tossed-aside, non-reusable bits of packaging and a broken dowel to throw away. 

“So, do you absolutely have to use Nen to be a Hunter?” asked Zepile. Mizaistom was at first confused by the question, but then remembered he’d told Zepile he could ask him about Nen once he’d finished sculpting.

“No,” said Mizaistom. “We use Nen _because_ we’re Hunters.” 

Zepile tossed the tightly tied off bag of leftover supplies into an empty drawer at the bottom of the room’s long dresser. “Isn’t that the same thing?” he asked as he kicked the drawer shut. “If you can’t use Nen, you can’t be a Hunter, right?”

“That isn’t exactly it,” said Mizaistom. Many of his students had asked him the same question before, often when their Nen training was progressing at a slower rate than they’d have liked it to, and they were concerned about it holding them back. “While it’s true that all Hunters use Nen,” he said, “the only real qualification for becoming a Hunter is that you’re strong and you possess sufficient resolve. Though we call it a ‘second exam’ when we introduce Nen to new, still uninitiated Hunters, no certified Hunter has ever actually failed to learn it. Failing to learn Nen is something utterly impossible for us due to the sort of people we are. It’s too valuable a tool. We fit our Nen abilities to our own specific needs as individuals. It helps us develop skills that surpass natural human limits, skills which will aid us in accomplishing whatever goal we’ve set for ourselves as Hunters.”

Zepile sat down at the table again, frowning and crossing his arms. “What do you use it for?” he asked. It was almost a demand.

“Me, personally?”

“Yes. How does Mizaistom Nana use Nen? What’s your deal?”

Mizaistom wouldn’t have minded explaining some of his ability to Zepile, especially since Zepile had already seen it in action, but he didn’t want Zepile to get the wrong impression. Nen was actually a secret, despite how matter-of-factly Gon had brought it up it when he and Zepile had first met. Little did Zepile know that tiny bit of information he'd got from Gon had made him more knowledgeable than 97-percent of most first-time Hunter Exam applicants. If Zepile was going to learn Nen, needed a much better sense of boundaries, or he wouldn’t survive. The Hunters he’d known, who’d been uncommonly forthcoming with information so far, were not the norm.

“Most Nen-users prefer to keep the details of their abilities to themselves,” said Mizaistom. He chose to make himself Zepile’s first example by holding back about his own ability. “Often our best advantage in combat is to catch an opponent off-guard. For that reason, we don’t freely share information about our abilities with others, even those who are close to us. Not unless it’s deemed extremely necessary.”

If Mizaistom were worried about hurting Zepile’s feelings, he was far from it. Instead of caring about Mizaistom’s super-secret ability, Zepile grew critical of the one thing that did disturb him.

“Does it really _always_ come back to combat with Nen use?” asked Zepile. Mizaistom was taken aback by how genuinely annoyed he sounded. “Violence, death, murdering each other? That’s Nen?”

“No,” said Mizaistom. “That’s just the nature of the world Hunters live in.”

“You fight people with Nen? You learn Nen to fight people better? That’s what you mean. That’s what Hunters need Nen for.”

“Yes,” said Mizaistom firmly. His admonishing tone caused Zepile to shut his mouth and raise his eyebrows in mild surprise. He hadn’t expected to surpass the limits of Mizaistom’s patience so quickly. The battle-happy nature of Hunters seemed to be a sore point. “Yes. We all know how to fight, with or without Nen. There’s a stipulation in the Association bylaws that Hunters must possess at least some martial ability. You can’t even pass the initial exam without engaging in combat at some point, and no-one passes who doesn’t at least demonstrate an aptitude for mastering Nen.”

“Ah, well, I’ve got the Nen, I guess, but I wouldn’t call martial ability my strong suit,” said Zepile. He rubbed his shoulder sorely as he spoke, as though remembering an unpleasant past experience where his his admittedly limited martial ability had failed him. “When things start getting rough, I start getting out of there.”

“You barely know Nen,” Mizaistom corrected him. “You’ll need physical training in addition to learning Nen if you hope to ever pass the exam. Indeed, I wouldn’t feel confident starting your training in earnest until you’d raised your physical fitness considerably from where it is now.”

“It’s not enough to know Nen; I need to be in shape, too?” groaned Zepile. “Well, then, forget it. No license for me.”

Mizaistom knew Zepile was exaggerating, but he couldn’t stop himself from launching into an explanation anyway. It was hard to tell where Zepile’s defensive humor ended, and where his real self-doubts began. Since Mizaistom couldn’t read minds, all the could do was make himself perfectly clear and hope.

“If you aren’t physically competent before you begin training in earnest, there’s a risk you’ll depend too heavily on your Nen alone in combat, developing an ability that makes up for your lack rather than one that complements your existing skill set. A strong, reliable, and most importantly _adaptable_ Nen ability isn’t about adding on extraneous skills unrelated to your existing aptitudes. It’s about augmenting yourself as you already are. The ideal Nen ability works with you, not in spite of you.”

“Any kind of fighting would probably be in spite of me,” said Zepile. He stared down at the table with his head in his hands, blurting out his next statement while almost simultaneously regretting it. “And I'd never kill anyone. It’s not easy for me. I’m normal.” 

The implication, which made Zepile cringe, was that Hunters, and therefore Mizaistom, were abnormal and could kill indiscriminately. Mizaistom paused to come up with a tactful response, but Zepile cut him off before he could speak. “Nevermind,” he said. “I’m sure you guys have your reasons when you kill people. Forget it.”

At the same time, Zepile was thinking of mass murders committed by Nen-users, specifically the attacks of the Phantom Troupe against the Underground Auction in York Shin the year before, and then, only a few months ago, the deaths of a group of Temp Hunters who’d supposedly been tracking down other Hunters who’d committed heinous crimes. There’d been no follow up on whether the killers had ever been caught, and after a week, the story had dropped out of the nightly news cycle completely. Zepile, who made a point to never missed anything in the news pertaining to Hunters, hadn’t forgot about it so quickly, and hadn’t stopped feeling disturbed over how easily the rest of world had seemed to move on. He’d thought about Gon and Killua, as he nearly always did whenever Hunter’s were mentioned. He’d called Leorio a while later, but Leorio hadn’t known much, since he’d been too busy worrying about Gon at the time of the attack to care. All Leorio knew was that it’d had something to do with Killua’s family, but the less anyone knew about them, they safer they’d be. As he'd said this, Zepile had realized that, even if Leorio had known more than he let on, there was no chance he’d ever tell Zepile.

“Some Hunters would do well to remember the value of life and not get carried away in their strength,” said Mizaistom after a long pause in which Zepile hadn’t looked up once from the table.

“Okay.”

“Criminals and murders have become Hunters. I can’t lie and say we’re all good.”

“I get it.”

Mizaistom, who normally trained more willing hopefuls for the Hunter Exam, was more convinced than ever that Zepile would never retake it. And yet, inexplicably, Mizaistom felt the need to press on and share more. In a way, he wanted an excuse to explain something vital about himself and his own experience, because being a Hunter shaped everything about Mizaistom on a fundamental level that couldn’t be explained in precise, direct terms.

“Being a Hunter brings you close to every possible extreme of human existence. Extreme power, extreme ability, and the most extreme outcomes, such as death, as consequences for one’s actions,” said Mizaistom. The words came out colder than he would’ve liked, like it didn’t affect him. “So naturally, there’s a lot of death and killing and dying and fighting.”

“What could you possible have to fight over? To the death?”

“Hunters and Nen-users operate in a world that is part of but also parallel to normal society, so, for us, things are different. Frankly, it’s about survival. That’s the tone our previous chairman set for us as an organization. Once you become a Hunter and learn to use Nen, you enter a world that challenges you to outsmart and survive other Nen-users, human or otherwise, as you pursue your goals.”

Zepile shot up in his seat and looked at Mizaistom finally, eyes wide.

“Human… _or otherwise_?” he asked. Then, just as suddenly, he relaxed when the obvious answer occurred to him. “Oh yeah. You mean magical beasts, right? Like in the Mitene Union?”

“Beasts count, but animals can use Nen, as well. Much of our understanding of practical Nen applications has come from observing animals.” 

Zepile furrowed his brow. “You mean just...normal animals?”

“Yes. Much like a Geniuses, animals employ their Nen naturally as they move through their environment.”

“So, can a cat use Nen?”

“Exceedingly well.”

“Can a mouse?”

“Not often with the same facility as a cat, but yes.”

“Birds?”

“Some varieties of crow have a truly exceptional aptitude for Nen use. There’s a breed in Hesas that was recently classified as a magical beast due to its mastery of Nen.”

“That’s…kind of cool,” said Zepile. “Good for them.”

“It’s good for them, but bad for poachers. As the crows are now under the protection of the Hunter Association, anyone caught poaching them can be killed on the spot by any Hunter.” 

The trace of Zepile’s usual ironic grin played at the corner of his mouth. “Of course,” his expression said. Of course the Hunters could use lethal force, no questions asked. “Seems like a strong deterrent,” he said aloud.

“It’s heavy-handed and short-sighted,” said Mizaistom. Zepile stared at him blankly. “The crows aren’t in any danger of extinction,” he explained, “and yet, no provisions were made in the law for the local woodland tribes’ practice of keeping tokens of one of seven varieties of scared bird found in the area, which includes these specific crows. A student of mine prosecuted a local Beast Hunter for using his government permission to dispatch poachers in order to take charge of a village and extort protection fees from the families.”

“Did your student win?”

“She won the criminal case against the Beast Hunter, but it’s the law itself that needs to change. Unfortunately, too many high ranking Hesas officials are involved. It’ll take years before anything’s re-written.”

“Well, she’s probably a far better student than me, if she’s out there fighting a government conspiracy all by herself,” said Zepile. He waved dismissively behind him. “I’m just half-assing a cow sculpture, barely remembering what a cow’s foot looks like even as I’m staring right at one on the model I’m supposed to be copying. Proud moment for me, the master counterfeiter.” 

Mizaistom didn’t say anything, just grunted in acknowledgment while Zepile laughed at himself. His eyes fell on the sculpture in question, which Zepile had set next to the lamp on the bedside table. Zepile looked over his shoulder to it as well, following Mizaistom’s gaze to its obvious conclusion. Mizaistom nodded for Zepile to bring the sculpture over and Zepile, instead of getting up, leaned his chair back almost to the point of tipping over, until he could reach the sculpture and grasp it by its body. Using the sculpture’s weight as well as his own, he rocked forward, letting the momentum bring his chair back down with a thud only mildly muted by the carpeted floor. Triumphantly, he placed the sculpture on the table and pushed it towards Mizaistom. Then, he sat back in his chair to wait.

“When it comes to Nen, you’re someone we consider partially awakened. Most people would call you half-awakened, but that isn’t my preferred terminology, since it’s the aura nodes located throughout the body that open and emit aura, allowing one to use Nen, and in your case, it’s not as many as half that have been opened. It’s a seemingly insignificant distinction, I know. but it’s important to me to refer to things as accurately as possible.”

Zepile swallowed hard but rested his head in his hand with noticeably forced ease. He nodded a quarter of a second too late when Mizaistom paused to check for understanding.

“For non-Geniuses, opening one’s aura nodes usually involves a long, deliberate process of mediation which can take years. In the meantime, one prepares for controlling their aura through visualization exercises in conjunction with physical training to strengthen the body. Since you’re already capable of directing your aura, but are unable to sense its presence, I believe it’d be best to start with visualization. It isn’t safe to open more of your aura nodes if you haven’t trained to control the flow of aura escaping. Also, once you’re able to feel the flow of your own aura after visualizing it, you’ll be able to access your Nen ability deliberately, increasing its effectiveness.”

“I guess that sounds neat,” said Zepile doubtfully. “I’ve never meditated before. Do I sit cross-legged on the floor, or…?”

“That won’t be necessary. We can use an item you’ve imbued with Nen as a conductor to help you visualize the flow of aura through and around it.” Mizaistom cooly indicated the sculpture between them. “It’ll give you an idea of what you’re aiming fo when you visualize your aura. So, first, set your hands on it in whatever way is natural to you, and we’ll proceed from there.”

Zepile took a deep breath and sat forward, dragging his seat up with him to the edge of the table. The statue was facing him already, so he straightened it out and then laid his hands on it in what he figured was the most logical manner against either flank.

“You should envision aura flowing out from your left side, down your arm and into the right side of the sculpture. Envision that same aura moving out of the sculpture and up your right arm, through your body, and out again at the left. It should continuously flow through you and the statue in a clockwise loop. Once that's established, you’re going to gradually pull your hands away as far as you can while still feeling the energy moving between them and through the sculpture. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” said Zepile. He took another deep breath and gritted his teeth, staring the sculpture down as he attempted to summon forth invisible quantities of aura he couldn’t even feel.

“It’s going to seem like it’s all in your head at first,” said Mizaistom. “That’s fine. Nen is the application of aura produced by the body and controlled by the mind. It’s going to feel like you’re trying to imagine something that isn’t real, as though you’re trying to trick yourself. That’s why it’s essential to clear your mind and meditate on the flow of energy around you until you’ve expanded your senses and can truly feel its presence.”

“Yeah, so like, activate my ESP, crack open that third eye, wake up the superhuman potential inside me,” said Zepile, not at all serious. Mizaistom sighed.

“Please, try to focus. You already know that Nen is real.”

“That’s actually what I’m kind of afraid of here,” muttered Zepile. He changed his grip on the sculpture and settled into a more comfortable sitting position. Reluctantly, he shut his eyes, and then, a second later, re-adjusted his hold on the statue, this time pulling his palms away until only the tips of his fingers only were making contact with its surface. Mizaistom watched and took mental notes of every change, since even the most subtle movements made by a beginning Nen-user while settling into their most natural stance could reveal clues about the user’s innate proficiencies and what methods of instruction would suit them best.

For a while, time passed with excruciating slowness. It was apparent after several minutes that, while Zepile was able to move a steady current of aura around in a trickling loop as Mizaistom had requested, its thin stream was nowhere near the volume necessary for a beginner like him to perceive it. Still, such a lackluster result didn’t surprise Mizaistom. The problem with Geniuses was that they could command their Nen, but they couldn’t modulate its quantity or focus it on a defined task unless, by the nature of their ability itself, they’d constructed conditions for that defined task beforehand. Since Zepile’s own rudimentary ability involved the lengthy process of producing counterfeit artwork, Zepile hardly ever needed to call forth large amounts of aura all at once. Instead, his aura entered the piece he was working on gradually, until it built up into the measurable amount a trained Nen-user could easily spot using Gyo. The rest of the aura that leaked out of Zepile’s open nodes was lost naturally, dissipating in a line of energy stemming up from his head in the same way non-users shed their own trace amounts of leaked aura. In Zepile’s case, however, the amount lost was greater and more consistent, particularly when he made a conscious effort to use any part of his Nen ability.

“How’s the health of your uncle?” asked Mizaistom. Zepile’s eyes snapped open, and the flow of aura moving in a loop through his body and the sculpture ceased. 

“What?”

“Is he sickly, or does he have a high susceptibility to illness?”

Zepile shrugged. “Cold and flu season always seemed to hit him pretty hard every year when he was working as a high school art teacher,” he said. “Then, he quit teaching and almost never got sick again.”

“I see,” murmured Mizaistom, becoming thoughtful. Zepile looked at the sculpture uncertainly, not sure if he was allowed to let go of it yet. He took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders, but kept his hands in place. 

“So, then” ventured Zepile when it looked like Mizaistom had nothing to add. “Was the old guy’s Nen getting back at him for not using it or something? Is that what you’re going to say? Nen will kick your own ass if you don’t use it to kick everyone else’s?”

“Not exactly,” said Mizaistom. “Nen doesn’t think for itself. That’s like saying electricity thinks for itself. It’s impossible.”

“What is it, then?”

“Your mind, your body, and your willpower combine to create Nen,” said Mizaistom, not able to stress that point enough. “If you’ve begun to unlock your potential to manipulate your aura, but you don’t know how to regulate its flow, then you run a risk of losing a significant quantity of that aura needlessly. Even trained Nen-users must learn to moderate their output. It’s unhealthy otherwise. Because your uncle didn’t know he’d opened what sounds like over a quarter of his aura nodes, a large amount of his life energy was being wasted. Indeed, it’s not uncommon for exceptional artists who are Nen Geniuses to die young or suffer from poor health. Either they never learn to control their Nen, or they unwittingly expend too much aura into their work and essentially burn themselves out.”

“But I’m totally healthy, though.”

“You haven’t got as many aura nodes open as your uncle has,” said Mizaistom. “Art, which is the basis of your ability, is not a primary focus in your life. You haven’t advanced as far as someone who has dedicated their life to it. For that reason, while your mind and your body are capable of using Nen to an extent, your willpower is inconsistent. If your aura nodes were forced open by another Nen-user, you would likely suffer the same extreme consequences as a non-user. You may even run a higher risk of dying, since the only way you know how to harness your Nen is to pour it out of you into something else. On instinct, that may be the first thing you attempt to do with the surplus aura surging through you, and that can kill you if you can’t stop it in time.”

“Shit,” said Zepile. He’d gone a little pale. “Don’t you think you should warn people about this kind of thing? So they don’t just lose all their aura and drop dead?”

“It won’t save them to know it,” said Mizaistom. Zepile’s brow furrowed tightly into an indignant scowl, but he held his tongue. “The usual, intended purpose of an attack strong enough to force open a person’s aura nodes is to kill them. Such a tremendous surge of aura being sent through the body at once doesn’t usually happen by chance. Given the rarity of Nen attacks on non-users, however, it’s not something most people are at high risk of ever experiencing.”

“Doesn’t _usually_ happen by chance?”

“I only say ‘usually’ because there is a rare variety of giant hornet found on the Island of Maliry—”

“Nevermind,” interrupted Zepile ahead of what promised to be a careful and detailed explanation of all things giant hornet and Nen attacks. His gripped the cow sculpture tighter after having allowed his hold on it slacken. He nodded towards it, indicating that he’d like to get back on track with envisioning his aura or whatever. Although he’d been able to move his aura on command successfully, he hadn’t been able to feel it, so, as far as Zepile could tell, they’d accomplished nothing. With the sudden threat of having all his aura pour out of him and dying instantly, however, his motivation had gone up, and he was now determined to accomplish something, anything, that might help ensure his survival.

Mizaistom mentally applauded Zepile’s change of perspective. Struggling for survival was the surest way to align one’s willpower and actions into a single, unified goal. It was the quickest way to master the sort of Nen a Hunter needed, and was exactly the sort of thing the modern Hunter Exam had been designed to test.

“I’ll help you this time around,” said Mizaistom. “You didn’t sense it, but you were doing exactly what I told you to just now; the aura was flowing correctly.” He allowed Zepile a small moment to breathe a sigh of relief. “However, your control of it is weak, and it’s escaping. If you had a few months to meditate and train with a full-time instructor, you’d improve a great deal. Unfortunately, I won’t have the time once more intensive preparations for the mission to the Dark Continent begin, so, instead, we’ll use this sculpture of yours as a shortcut. The normal approach would be to make you imagine a bridge or a ball of energy between your hands, but you won’t be able to concentrate that much aura in one place for at least another month of intensive training. Hence, the sculpture. Ideally, the sculpture’s own aura, which came from you, can help you compensate for the aura you’re losing naturally when you try to use Nen.”

“Okay,” Zepile determinedly. “I think I get it. I just try to feel its aura?” His fingers pressed into the cow sculpture a little harder in anticipation, but relaxed when Mizaistom shook his head.

“No. Imagine you’re layering your aura like a film over the aura already surrounding the sculpture,” said Mizaistom. Zepile frowned. “Move your aura around its shape rather than through it, until the sensation on the surface isn’t only the smoothness of the glaze, but something actively moving, perhaps like a liquid or a sheet of air. Then, when you think you can feel that energy, slowly pull your fingertips away until the only sensation beneath them is the one that’s moving. You should still be able to sense the sculpture as clearly as if you were touching it, but the surface should feel active.”

“That sounds incredibly creepy,” said Zepile, making a face. “It’s not going to feel like little bugs, is it?”

“The actual sensation of aura flowing around the body varies by individual, but it will be unmistakable, and quite animated.” Mizaistom noticed Zepile’s squeamish look. “But, it’s generally agreed to be more of a liquid sensation initially, rather than that of particles or little bugs. Don’t worry.”

Zepile nodded, still doubtful, but shut his eyes once more and concentrated on…whatever it was Mizaistom thought he might begin to feel if he could only focus enough willpower to the task. Across from him, Mizaistom was eerily quiet, disappearing into the silence of the hotel room that existed someplace far away beyond the darkness of Zepile’s eyelids. The pads of Zepile’s fingers warmed the cool, hard surface of the cow sculpture as he flattened them against it to increase the amount of surface area they were in contact with. If anything moved, Zepile was determined not to miss it. 

Zepile didn’t know how to meditate, so, he wasn’t sure exactly what he was supposed to be doing or thinking as he sat there, holding onto the sculpture and feeling foolish. He was the kind of person who correlated meditation with falling directly to sleep if left unsupervised, and so, this was what he initially believed was happening when he finally felt a faint movement beneath his fingers. It started out as an indescribable feeling of energy his mind scrambled to relate to anything he knew. The more he tried to pinpoint it exactly, however, the more it took on the feeling of several disparate sensations at once and confused him more. It grew faintly warm like heat, vibrated like sound through a wall, flowed like some dense syrup, and tingled like bubbles of carbonation all at once. His hands began to itch and feel restless. Everything was kinetic, and at the same time, tangible and solid. He thought about shape, and as he did so, the sensation grew firmer, solidifying into the familiar sensation of the cow sculpture under his fingers. There was a difference, however. The surface had a fine grit, like shifting sand or, Zepile was unhappy to conclude, a horde of tiny aphids. He told himself it had to be liquid, that Mizaistom had said something about liquid, and gradually, the gritty feeling smoothed out, becoming silky, and then slick like wet stone.

Perhaps Mizaistom had spoken. Zepile hadn’t heard, and yet, somehow, he was reminded of the next step. He had to move his hands above the aura now and apply a shell of more aura over it, up and out, again and again until…well, Mizaistom hadn’t told him when to stop. Maybe he’d be embracing a life-sized cow sculpture in another hour. Who knew? But then again, where would all that aura come from? When he was done, where would it all go? How much aura did a person actually have?

Zepile’s momentarily stellar concentration unraveled in an instant as his mind was inundated with questions. The feeling of aura, though distinct, was becoming vague and fading away. In seconds, he lost it completely and swore at it in frustration. He scrambled to call it back, but the surge of negative emotions seemed to have built a wall between him and the delicate, nuanced feeling of power he knew still shifted over the surface of the sculpture, between the lines of his fingerprints, over his hands, up through his arms, and up even higher still as it sought the highest point in the sky like smoke from a fire rolling off of him into nothingness.

Zepile’s frustration transformed into a mild panic as he became aware of his aura literally leaving his own body. Thankfully, this terrifying feeling of drifting up and away ended the moment his eyes shot open. His gaze fell on the table where the cow sculpture had been, but which now stood puzzlingly empty. Mizaistom had moved it away while Zepile hadn’t been looking. Zepile’s fingers weren’t touching anything. Between them was an empty space that, until he made the connection between what he saw and what he felt, still registered as the cool glazed surface of the cow sculpture now located next to Mizaistom’s elbow.

“The task I just had you preform is partially based off an exercise for envisioning the way one’s aura moves around specific shapes in order to more accurately perceive one’s surroundings using Nen,” said Mizaistom much too casually as Zepile stared at him in mute awe mingled with fear. “It was also based on an exercise used to concentrate one’s aura around a three dimensional figure, either in preparation to begin manipulating that figure, or to reproduce it with the greatest possible level of detail. I assumed that would come more naturally to you, since you use Nen to create counterfeit art.”

Zepile curled his fingers into loose fists, squeezing and relaxing them over and over as if debating whether the sensation of touch being relayed back to him were real, whether his hands themselves truly existed. Mizaistom’s words washed over him as useless as the aura flowing up and out of his body, carrying particles of his life away with it into nowhere. If aura was just another word for life energy, then the sensation of it streaming out of him must be the sensation of his life itself depleting in real time, second-by-second, every single day, until it inevitably ran out, and he died. That was a lot to take in so suddenly, and Mizaistom’s words, whatever he was saying, felt inconsequential in comparison.

Unawares, Mizaistom just kept on talking.

“…but if your uncle is an incompatible Nen-type, then that would explain your lack of further intuitive progression towards a greater level of mastery, as he would’ve been teaching you techniques incompatible with your—”

“That’s it,” said Zepile, interrupting him at last. Mizaistom stumbled to a halt mid-syllable and gaped at him, startled at the sudden strength of conviction in Zepile’s voice. Zepile's expression had gone from entirely blank to resolute in the blink of an eye, but Mizaistom had no idea what he was talking about.

“I’m sorry," said Mizaistom, "but you’d really have no way of knowing yourself for sure if your uncle and you possessed distinct Nen-types, since the primary test is—”

“No, I mean, _that’s it_ ,” said Zepile again. “I mean I’m not going to learn Nen.”

Mizaistom scoffed, uncomfortable and perplexed by the outburst. “I’m sorry?” he asked.

“I have a bad feeling about it, and I told you, when there’s trouble, I don’t stick around.”

“If you’re feeling alarmed or disturbed after perceiving your aura’s flow for the first time, that’s understandable. We can take a break now and resume later, once you’ve had some distance. From here the lessons are primarily vocabulary and theory, preparation and meditation to improve your Ten with no practical applications for half a year. There’s print-outs and a—”

“No,” snapped Zepile. Mizaistom recoiled somewhat. Seeing this, Zepile wavered and then felt embarrassed, the hardness with which he’d spoke only a second ago breaking apart as the awkwardness his newfound intensity had created became apparent to him. “Or, well, maybe we’ll save that for later,” he added, mumbling the words with his eyes cast down. He fell back into his seat wearily and attempted a small, placating smile, but there was no feeling behind it, and he couldn’t meet Mizaistom’s eye.

“It’s understandable,” repeated Mizaistom. 

“I know. I know you understand.”

“My offer to teach you and train you for the Hunter Exam still stands, even if for the time being you have doubts about learning.”

“Thanks.”

“Just allow me to clarify something before you give up completely.” 

“It won’t change my mind.”

“But I want you to know it anyway,” said Mizaistom. He rested a hand on the back of the cow sculpture, and Zepile looked over to it reluctantly before shifting his gaze to meet Mizaistom’s. 

“It’s not an accident or a mistake that you can use Nen. As a Genius, you possess a natural aptitude for learning it which is greater than the average human. You don’t simply become a Nen-user of your caliber because someone unintentionally half-taught you how to use Nen when you were younger. If it were that simple to unlock one’s potential, there’d be far more active Geniuses in the world than there are. In your particular case, it’s a predisposition, a talent you were born with, and you can nurture it, or you can neglect it as you see fit. It’s your choice.”

“Ah, well. It’s not going to be the first gift life’s given me that I’ve squandered,” said Zepile with a droll laugh. Mizaistom didn’t share his feelings, and waited, his expression never changing, for Zepile to stop kidding around.

“If you want to squander it, you are at liberty to do so,” said Mizaistom. Zepile’s forced smile dampened and then went out. There were no amused glances or wry comments left to make. For a long time, he sat quiet and motionless, lost in thought even worse than Mizaistom, considering his future. Mizaistom excused himself and stood to grab his coat, determining it would be best to leave Zepile alone to figure things out for himself for a while.

“I’ll bring the information for the Bagliores’ party tomorrow, the logistics of how we’ll arrive, at what time, and what protocols we’ll follow to ensure the success of the mission. Things ought to go more or less smoothly. We’ll have another briefing before the party itself, just in case there are any changes.”

“Good. At last,” said Zepile without feeling. Mizaistom hadn’t expect him to answer at all, and nodded awkwardly, though he knew Zepile wasn’t looking. “And then,” continued Zepile on a murmured afterthought, “it’ll all be over. Finally.” He yawned and stretched, checking the time on the clock by the bed as he leaned back. “Damn, it’s only half past seven?”

Mizaistom, shrugging on his coat, nodded again. “It is,” he observed lamely.

“Where are you going?” asked Zepile, having only just realizing then that Mizaistom was preparing to leave. “Somewhere important to be at seven o’clock at night?”

“Well…” said Mizaistom. He couldn’t explain that, given the circumstances, he’d assumed Zepile might need space. Mizaistom definitely would’ve in Zepile’s shoes. Zepile had just undergone the uniquely traumatic experience of encountering irrevocable proof of the existence of his own Nen abilities. It was the sort of shock to one’s system that needed a long, quiet night of reflection to get over.

“Stick around,” said Zepile. His old energy was coming back to him now as he plodded over to the small refrigerator and swung it open. “Have a beer. Watch tv. Whatever. Hanging out goes a long way towards making us a more believable couple, right? And anyway, you’ve already wasted the entire day on me, so, whatever else you were hoping to get done today is ruined.”

Zepile turned and held up a beer towards Mizaistom. “So?” he asked. ”Might as well just stick around.”

Normally, Mizaistom would’ve hesitated and turned the offer down. “Okay,” he found himself saying instead. “Alright.” Before he knew it, he was shrugging the coat back off and hanging it in the hall closet. Spending long, quiet nights to mull things over wasn’t Zepile’s style. If Mizaistom left, he'd probably call Leorio, but Mizaistom was already there, so, it wouldn’t hurt to just accept the offer and ‘stick around’ as Zepile had said. Plus, it pleased Mizaistom somewhat to know that maybe Zepile had started to consider him more in the favorable, friendly way he considered Leorio.

“Awesome. We can watch one of those cop and lawyer shows, and you can point out everything wrong with it, on both sides,” said Zepile gleefully. He moved aside a lamp and an alarm clock to set the beers in easy reach on the table between the two beds, kicking off his shoes as he went.

“If that's your plan, I’m going to need a lot more to drink,” said Mizaistom as he sat on the opposite bed. It took a second for Zepile to register this as a joke, but when he did, he burst into more laughter than it needed.

“Get ready,” warned Zepile as he snatched up the remote. “I’m going to need to know absolutely everything about criminal justice, and you’re going to have to teach me. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” said Zepile. “Finally, a Hunter who’s useful for something, who’s contributing to his community. At last.”

Mizaistom scoffed and took a sip of beer while Zepile clicked through channels in search of something sure to be especially torturous both of them. He was soon rewarded with a marathon of a famous, long-running crime drama from York Shin that'd been in syndication almost as long as Zepile had been alive. He toasted Mizaistom with his beer, calling the show a modern classic, and rewound the episode to the beginning.


	23. Warning

Fiammata Bagliore wanted to jingle with the sound of silver bells, but Zepile only heard the clanking, dull ring of a tightly packed herd of sheep crossing a country road. The bells she wore weren’t the lighter sort normally applied to costumes, because Fiammata hadn’t wanted to sound like a jingling horse and carriage whenever she danced. Someone else in the group had pointed out that jingle bells would’ve been festive, given the time of year. Fiammata had frowned said she’d consider it, but everyone in the room knew her well enough to know that nothing about the costume would ultimately change.

Alone in a corner by his own volition since the moment he’d arrived, Zepile hadn’t asked to be invited to the Bagliores’ pre-party, costume event, but Fiammata had twisted his arm on the matter. Fulmineo couldn’t make a decision on which subtle human body part accent piece to incorporate into his outfit, and Zepile’s remaining stock included a set of bone-crafted fashion accessories collected in the aftermath of a civil war on the small, but wealthy, Arridiri Archipelago. Affected by Ossuphaga poison, the bone fragments bore a distinctive porous and profoundly blue-tinged surface, which crumbled away when handled improperly. Specimens were commonly preserved in clear resin blocks before being worked into buttons and ornaments and sold to collectors. For years the market had been flooded by a surplus of items, but the knowledge of how to produce Ossuphaga poison faded after the war, and valuable examples of affected bone dwindled down to a handful of truly exceptional pieces on display in Arridiri museums and scattered across the remnants of the once far-reaching jewelry trade. Nowadays, available items ran a wide spectrum in quality, from low-end, mass produced tourist’s trinkets, to high demand artisan work. There’d also been an influx of convincing fakes when Ossuphaga affected bone had experienced a short surge in renewed popularity. Fulmineo, meanwhile, claimed it had never gone out of style and never would. He already owned three exceptional pieces, but was always on the lookout for more to add to his collection.

When Fiammata was finished with the preview of her dress, Fulmineo stepped out in his own dancing costume. The colors were more conservative, but the shape of the skirt, made more voluminous by a mass of frills and flounces, was more fun and flowing, perfect for can-can dancing. He demonstrated a few steps for the crowd, revealing underskirts that flashed with a metallic sheen and a sparkle of glitter. Supposedly it was real silver thread. Zepile wished Leorio were with him so that they could exchange a glance of question and concern at the frivolous pursuits the rich turned to when there was nothing left in the world they couldn’t buy.

On accident, Zepile shared a very different look with Linsen instead, who was standing still like a sentinel near the door, despite having been invited as a guest. Zepile cringed and averted his gaze. At the end of the show, once the Bagliores had disappeared into their changing rooms to dress for a more informal evening, Linsen finally dared to approach Zepile. He offered him what looked like an expensive cigar. Zepile turned it down.

“How’s work been going?” asked Linsen as he snapped the cigar case shut. “I hear you’re wrapping up your sales these days. Are the Bagliores going to buy the Arridiri gems?”

“Fulmineo agreed after hardly a glance,” said Zepile. He kept an eye on the rest of the room, so he wouldn’t end up alone with Linsen if the group moved on. “The money’s already in my account.”

“He trusts you quite a bit, then. Didn’t even negotiate, I presume?”

“Nope. He liked the color, and that’s all that matters to him.”

“That must be good for you.”

“It’s always a pleasure doing business with a loyal customer.”

Though he was trying to be more outgoing, Linsen wasn’t the sort to smile politely through the pleasantries of idle chit-chat, and this gave his conversation with Zepile a mechanical, dull aspect, highlighting how purely devoid of meaning it was for both of them. Zepile found it silly that Linsen would go through the trouble of pretending to be even remotely interested in Zepile’s sales to the Bagliores. He couldn't tell what Linsen’s true intentions were. All he knew for certain was that Linsen wanted information about Scarlet Eyes, but there was nothing Zepile could say that Linsen didn’t know. The only secret Zepile had was the name of his source, and ironically, that wasn’t going to be useful for Linsen. Even if the name were squeezed out of him, Zepile doubted Linsen would be able to act on the knowledge, considering how far Mizaistom outranked him both in ability and influence. All that would happen was that the mission would fail, and Kurapika, by proxy of Linsen, would be no closer to the Scarlet Eyes than he would’ve been had he only played along with Mizaistom’s original plan.

“I’d prefer it if you’d step aside with me into the hall for a moment, so that we can have a more frank discussion,” said Linsen. He was done feigning as if he had any other motive for coming over to Zepile’s corner of the room.

“I’d prefer not to do that,” said Zepile. The small parlor they were in was crowded with ten people sitting around, and that suited Zepile just fine. As long as he could help it, he wouldn’t be heading anywhere in the mansion alone, especially not in the company of Linsen.

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” said Linsen, finding it critical to reassure Zepile of this. Zepile almost laughed. “I’m not asking in hopes that you’ll agree so that I can then coerce you into giving up information about whoever you’re working for.”

“Do you really think telling me I’m not stupid is going to get me to agree to do something stupid?”

Linsen pursed his lips. “I was hoping it might be faster if I were direct,” he admitted. “I see why you’re not cooperating. Let me apologize. I’m sorry about before. About our initial encounter.”

“You can be sorry all you want. I don’t care. You threatened me before you even introduced yourself. That was rude.”

“I didn’t know you were working with a Hunter.”

“But youshould’ve known I knew Hunters. I’ve even met your boss before. It shouldn’t have been a big surprise I might be working for one.”

“Is it your friend Leorio?”

“Ask Leorio yourself. Maybe get Kurapika to call him and ask.”

“If Leorio knows about Scarlet Eyes, Kurapika will.”

“I feel like he still won’t, that you’re going to make the call for him, as you do everything else for him.”

Linsen sighed and pivoted slightly to face the door as Fiammata and Fulmineo returned and were greeted with a round of applause. He didn’t clap, though Zepile standing next to him did. Zepile had told Fulmineo that he’d leave once he’d watched Fulmineo’s performance, but now, with Linsen eyeing him and hanging close, Zepile didn’t want to get caught away from the group. Once he left the mansion, he’d have the guarantee of Mizaistom’s team protecting him, perhaps even Mizaistom himself. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more Zepile supposed it had to be Mizaistom himself. Visiting the Bagliore house always posed the risk of running into Linsen, and only a Hunter could deal with another Hunter effectively.

“Are you going to make your appointment on time, Zepile?” asked Fulmineo when he spotted Zepile standing in the corner with Linsen. “It’s twenty minutes to North Square from here.”

“It was canceled,” lied Zepile, though the appointment itself had already been a lie. “I guess I can hang around a little longer, if it’s all right.”

“Excellent!” cheered Fulmineo, ecstatic. He put an arm around Zepile’s shoulders and led him out the door, while at the same time calling everyone else in the parlor to attention. Obediently, they began to rise and follow Fulmineo out the door. To Zepile, Fulmineo explained the evening entertainment. 

“The film of the Geridolt Dissection arrived this afternoon. You’re in for a treat. It’s a classic.”

“The what film?” asked Zepile. The question was partly caught and garbled in the sudden dryness of his mouth and throat. “Excuse me?” he added after he swallowed. 

“You’ll like it,” said Fulmineo, moving his arm down from Zepile’s shoulders to pat him on the back. “Huge historical significance in this piece. It’s a recording of the 1975 dissection of a Wyrclash tribesman in order to document the strange, auxiliary heart-like organ the Wyrclash so famously possessed. They’re extinct now, you know. This is one of the final records of their existence.”

In spite of Fulmineo’s exited assurances of the contrary, Zepile wasn’t going to like this film one bit, historic significance be damned. He debated with himself whether or not getting murdered by Linsen’s Nen was preferable to witnessing a human dissection on tape in real-time.

“I believe in 1975 Geridolt preformed a _vivisection_ on a Wyrclash tribesman,” said Linsen unhelpfully from Zepile’s other side. It annoyed Zepile that Linsen was still hovering around. “This choice may not be suitable for all guests.”

Zepile stopped dead in the tracks once the word “vivisection” hammered itself into his brain. Fulmineo spotted the immediate look of distress on his face and paused as well.

“Ah yes, thanks for reminding me, Linsen,” said Fulmineo. He made a quick smile of apology down to Zepile. “I don’t know if you’d be interested anyway…? Perhaps?”

There was no way Zepile could lie and say he might be. Never in a thousand years would he ever be interest in the prospect of watching a human being vivisected on a home movie theater screen. There was no taking back the expression horror that had broadcast itself across his entire face already at the thought. Slowly, but determinedly, he shook his head. He found that, for the moment, he was incapable of words.

“I understand completely,” Fulmineo assured him with sincere concern and warmth in his voice. Oddly enough, this managed to console Zepile somewhat. He wondered how Fulmineo could have so much empathy for a living person, and yet none for the bits and pieces of the dead that he bought and owned. “I’ll call Mr. Nana’s people to see if they’ll let me send you home with one of our drivers, so that you’re not stuck waiting around while we’re all watching the film.”

“You’ll call who?” asked Linsen, his interested piqued. “Nana, as in Mizaistom Nana?”

“Yes, Fiammata hired his company to look out for Zepile a little while ago,” said Fulmineo. His reassuring hand never left Zepile’s shoulder, where it rested heavy like an anchor. “You know how she is. Worried people might cause problems for Zepile knowing he’s a good friend of ours.”

“Mizaistom Nana is one of the best in the security business,” agreed Linsen. “Though, I must say, I’m a little offended you didn’t ask the Nostrades.”

“I think Fiammata’s worried about Hunters,” explained Fulmineo with a sigh. “Of course, I told her we could’ve just gone to the Hunter Association directly in that case, but she’d already called up Mr. Nana. I suppose I don’t mind it, though. Mizaistom Nana’s just as good as anyone else we would’ve got, and much cheaper and quicker to get a hold of than the Hunter Association directly. Really, getting anything at all done through the Hunter Association always takes ages if it’s not a national crisis, and even then, once they do take over, you can’t call the shots on anything anymore. It’s out of your hands.”

“True. Very true,” said Linsen, nodding along. He looked over at Zepile curiously, evaluating something new about him that Zepile couldn’t make out. “Interesting. Lucky. I don’t believe Mizaistom Nana usually takes many cases in this part of the world. He’s referred a few clients to our company in the past, since we also employ Hunters. I wonder what strings your sister might’ve pulled.”

“You didn’t hear? His company took the case for Fiammata’s friend, the shipping guy, since it’s connected to something they have going on in York Shin. They’re guarding him until that whole debacle goes to trial, so I guess she heard about it from him and had him give Mr. Nana a call.”

“I remember Mr. Leuis’s case,” said Linsen. He met Zepile’s eye with an unusual familiarity that, oddly enough, didn’t feel especially threatening. “Now that you mentioned it, I remember Mizaistom Nana’s people were involved. Of course Fiammata would use that to her advantage. She always finds the quickest solution.”

“Saves us a fortune on all the extra fees the Hunter Association charges, too,” said Fulmineo. He and Linsen shared a knowing laugh Zepile didn’t join in on. “Anyway, I’m going to make that call to Mr. Nana’s office real quick, then pop in to see how everything’s going in the cinema,” said Fulmineo.

“I’ll go with you,” said Zepile eagerly. “I don’t want to be hanging around by myself.”

“You don’t need to bother. You can wait with Linsen. Right, Linsen?” asked Fulmineo, beaming at Linsen who nodded back graciously. “See? Linsen won’t mind. He’s a Hunter, too, so you’re perfectly safe. No-one gets into this house with Linsen and his Nostrade team looking out for us.”

“I’d really like to go with you,” insisted Zepile. He didn’t care if it made him look clingy. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Linsen scoff silently at his efforts, but ignored it. Zepile was proud, but this wasn’t the kind of situation where he’d let his pride get him killed.

“I’ll be five minutes, tops,” promised Fulmineo. “The film has audio, so it wouldn’t feel right bringing you around if you still have to listen to the doctor describing the whole process. That might traumatize you more. The imagination is always worse than the reality.” 

Fulmineo gave Zepile another warm smile and gave his shoulder a small squeeze. Zepile wasn’t thrilled he was being talked down to, but he was absolutely ready to act with the obstinacy of a child if it might save his life. 

“I’m sure it won’t have that much of an effect,” said Zepile. “My imagination isn’t great. Never has been.”

“It’s all right, truly it is,” said Fulmineo. “I know I love studying the novelties of the human organism, but I’m quite understanding of those who aren’t as comfortable as I am with such material. You don’t need to subject yourself on my account. I’m serious. I must insist you wait with Linsen. It’s better for you. You’ll be alright with him. He’s a professional.”

There was little more Zepile could say at such an impasse. If he kept arguing and insisting, he might raise suspicion, or worse, get invited to watch the film, since Fulmineo might mistake his persistence as a morbid curiosity Zepile was too ashamed to outright admit to. Linsen remained as expressionless and serene as ever. Together, he and Zepile watched Fulmineo head down the hall and pop out of sight around a corner. With a sigh, Zepile prepared for the worst.

“Have you ever met Mizaistom Nana? In person?” asked Linsen after a pause. Zepile brushed past him and took a seat on a plush bench along the wall, not caring that the item was antique and perhaps not intended for practical use.

“Don’t try anything,” Zepile warned him with a dark look. “That Nen, or whatever. Don’t do it.”

“Don’t worry,” said Linsen with a surprisingly uneasy chuckle. “Who’s going to lay a finger on you knowing Mizaistom Nana’s looking after you? I want to live.”

“The guy’s that big a deal, huh?” asked Zepile, though Leorio, and even Mizaistom himself, had already told him Mizaistom was top-tier when it came to Hunters. Zepile’s hand was itching for a cigarette as he waited, but he hadn’t brought any along. He thought back longingly of the cigar Linsen had offered him earlier, though he knew it wouldn’t have been the same.

“He is indeed a big deal,” said Linsen. Zepile scooted away as Linsen took a seat beside him. “Mizaistom Nana was fourth runner up in the chairmen elections. If you’re friends with Leorio, you might already know we Hunters recently had elections for a new chairman. I attended them with some of my colleagues. Of course, none of us didn’t vote for Mizaistom. But, we voted for Leorio all the way through after the incident with Ging Freecs.”

“It certainly sounds that punch that was a crowd pleaser,” observed Zepile. “You Hunters are really into that physical violence, aren’t you?”

“It was far more than an impressive display of aggression,” said Linsen, chiding him lightly. “Leorio had already made profound impression on another colleague of mine last year when she met him in York Shin. What we know about him, we’ve heard from her. Hence, all punching aside, I thought he’d make an excellent chairmen.”

Zepile would’ve offered Linsen a sarcastic pat on the back, but his survival instinct assured him it wasn’t a good idea to touch an unfamiliar Hunter uninvited if he wished to remain in possession a fully functioning hand. “Thank you for your support, then, I guess,” he said. “I’ll, uh, let Leorio know you’re a fan.”

“Are you actually working for Leorio?”

“No, I’m working for Killua Zoldyck. Your boss owes him five hundred jenny and box of chocorobots, and I’m prepared to die to make sure the kid gets his due.”

There was no response from Linsen, whose lips pressed into a thin line as he calculated how best to reframe his approach. It was his only hope if he wanted to make any sort of headway in the conversation Zepile so far refused to take seriously.

“You still going to the party in two days, correct?” asked Linsen. Zepile nodded cautiously. “Neon Nostrade will be attending as well, as I’m sure you already know. She hopes to meet you there. She’s very excited at the prospect of doing business.”

“I’m always happy to do business.”

“Then, you’re in luck. There are more people interested than you know.”

“I’ll bet there are,” said Zepile. He stretched out his legs and buried his hands in his pockets, feigning ease while his eyes drifted in the direction Fulmineo had walked off. 

“During such a public event, with so many people of note congregated in one place, those with darker intentions might start feeling opportunistic,” said Linsen. “Security will be on high alert.”

Zepile, knowing his own intentions were suspect, assumed Linsen meant that security would be on alert against Zepile himself getting anywhere near Neon Nostrade. He wanted Zepile to keep his distance.

“Well, then, lucky me,” said Zepile. “With so much security around, it sounds like it’s going to be the safest place in the city.”

Linsen’s face crinkled onto a sneer. “For those like Neon and the Bagliores, it will be,” he said. “But, between you and Neon, if anything should happen, security will be looking after Neon, not you. Don’t assume for a moment that you’ll be safe.”

Zepile stared unblinkingly down the hall. The well of anxiousness in his chest made him restless. He started to confuse it with boredom as it persisted and made him fidget. “This is a very round about way to tell me not to go near Neon Nostrade, isn’t it?” he asked. Linsen didn’t answer him right away.

“Just don’t get in trouble,” said Linsen.” Don’t disappear anywhere on your own with anyone who says they want to talk business.” He hesitated, took a quick breath, and added, “Kurapika wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen to you, since you’re Leorio’s friend.”

Zepile believed this was true insofar as Kurapika probably didn’t want Zepile to get hurt for Leorio’s, or even Gon and Killua’s, sake. It wasn’t a promise not to hurt him, however. It just meant he’d honestly prefer not to.

“It’s considerate of Kurapika to be looking out for me,” said Zepile. “What a great guy.”

“For Leorio’s sake, I’m telling you to watch out,” said Linsen. He indicated the space around them. “Even here in this mansion, even with Mizaistom Nana’s security team hired to keep an eye on you, you yourself know you’re never truly safe. The party in two days will be no different.”

“For Leorio’s sake, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Linsen gritted his teeth and looked at Zepile like he was a fool. When Zepile caught his eye out of the corner of his own, Linsen scowled.

“If you only confirm it’s Leorio you’re working for,” said Linsen in a softer, more confidential voice, “I promise you that Kurapika will contact him. You won’t even have to attend the party or expose yourself to danger. We’ll work with Leorio directly from this point on.”

Zepile would’ve liked a cigarette to raise up to his mouth for a dramatic pause, but his hands were empty. He leaned forward and clasped them loosely between his knees instead, shrugging.

“To be honest?” he said, imitating Linsen’s own soft speaking. “If it were really just Leorio, simply as that, I’d have already told you by now.”

This was the best Linsen could hope for. Down the hall and around the corner, the sound of footsteps were heading towards them. Linsen stood in anticipation, but Zepile remained seated, hunched over and waiting. He was tired and ready to go home, or at least back to the hotel room that constituted his home in Baleno City. Fulmineo reappeared, calling and waving him over to follow him to the door. To be polite, he lamented that Zepile couldn’t stay, but also made sure to remind him that he didn’t judge Zepile for his choice in the slightest. 

“At any rate, we’ll be seeing each other soon at the party,” said Fulmineo happily. “We’ll have fun. It’ll be a good time.”

“Looking forward to it,” said Zepile and shook his hand. 

Over Fulmineo’s shoulder, Linsen watched Zepile take his leave. Something in his gaze indicated a touch of disappointment for the fact that he hadn’t been able to dissuade Zepile from attenting the party. Zepile smiled and waved to him as well. Linsen nodded curtly back. He’d gone by the time the car arrived, and Zepile was on his way home.


	24. Party

“I’m your buddy, you’re my buddy, we’re just two buddies implied to have slept together, or who want to sleep together at some later point in time. Nothing awkward about that.”

Mizaistom was mercifully exempt from have to reply to this statement, as Zepile wasn’t speaking to him, but rather to the mirror he and Mizaistom were reflected back in, making their final wardrobe adjustments before heading out to the Bagliore party. For whatever reason, Zepile couldn’t stop touching his newly trimmed hair and asking if it was still okay. Mizaistom had told him it was fine from every angle, and he hadn’t been lying. The refreshed style was now shorter and tidier, the hair in the front weighed down and brushed forward with enough care that it reduced the large expanse of Zepile’s forehead by a few millimeters, bringing it more attractively into the realm of somewhat average proportions. When it came to ruining his hair, Zepile’s only real problem was himself, since every few minutes, his hand shot upwards to run through his hair and send it all standing on end in multiple directions with its more usual, chaotic abandon. So far, he’d been catching himself at the last minute and swearing under his breath at such a close call. Then, he’d ask Mizaistom for the upteenth if his hair was still good.

“If it helps, I think you look all right even if you do ruin your hair,” said Mizaistom. He didn’t care about hair at all and wished it were fashionable to arrive at the party wearing a great hat. “You shouldn’t worry about it so much. You’re okay.” 

Zepile stared hard at Mizaistom’s face in the mirror, his eyes narrowing as he tried to figure out if he were being made fun of. In the end, he wasn’t sure, so he treated the comment casually, as though it’d meant nothing.

“Hey, I know I look great,” said Zepile, leaning forward to straighten his bow-tie. “I spent too much money on these damn eyebrows not to.”

“They do seem to have a cleaner line than normal where they, uh, curve,” said Mizaistom, unsure how to put into words what he was seeing. Pretending to date was awkward enough, so he hadn’t allowed himself to take too close a look at any part of Zepile while they got ready. Staring even a fraction of a second too long made him suddenly self-conscious and embarrassed, and he didn’t want wonder about why, in case too much self-examination ruined their charade. “But, anyway,” he added hastily, “I don’t know a lot about eyebrows.”

“Of course you don’t. I didn’t even think you had eyebrows for the first full week I knew you, thanks to your hat.”

“I prefer low brims.”

“For me, that’s the coward’s way out,” said Zepile and laughed. “When you’ve got the loud, shapely brows I do, your only choice is to work with them. It’s good for business, though. People trust expressive faces, and eyebrows are so packed with expression, people draw them on animals that don’t even naturally have eyebrows in cartoons.”

Unthinkingly, Mizaistom traced a finger over his own brow, which lay exposed to the world at last without his typical hat concealing it. Zepile made to playfully jab him in the ribs with his elbow, but Mizaistom stepped out of the way. He looked down bewildered when Zepile lost his balance and stumbled, having leaned too hard into nothing but empty air.

“I hope you don’t go around embarrassing me like this at the party,” muttered Zepile, taking hold of Mizaistom’s arm to pull himself back up. He brushed them both off lightly and tugged the fabric of their suits back into place. Mizaistom apologized, explaining somewhat guiltily that there were certain defensive reflexes one simply couldn’t turn off, especially when the perceived attack was as slow and weak as Zepile’s had just been.

“Maybe around me, try to lower your guard so people don’t think you’ve got some kind of problem,” suggested Zepile, sounding a little bitter, because it felt like Mizaistom had just called him pathetic. “A friendly, spontaneous nudge in the side is going to get weird if I do a faceplant on the ballroom floor right after because you phased out of the way with your Hunter superpowers.”

“I only shifted my weight slightly to the side. That’s hardly a superpower.”

Zepile made a short, disbelieving sound.“You know what I mean, Mizai,” he said. “Please, just, try to be cool around me, okay? I’m cool around you, right? You could punch me right in the face, and I wouldn’t budge.” 

As usual, Mizaistom immediately made sure to insist he would never, ever do such a thing to Zepile, even if provoked. “It’s just an example, an exaggeration, hyperbole,” said Zepile, speaking louder and louder over him until he cut him off completely. “And hey, I’m not saying I wouldn’t get mad after getting hit, you know. It might hurt my feelings a little. Frankly, I’d be more confused than anything. But still, you’ll be able to get the punch in before totally destroying my trust in you. Do you get what I’m trying to tell you?”

Mizaistom nodded, but wasn’t sure if he did. Zepile smiled and said that was good before jumping into another topic, more eager than usual to keep talking, because having something to say made him feel more at ease and in control. Mizaistom endured it, pretending to check the shine on his shoes so that he looked busy and could refrain from having to say anything as Zepile revisited the subject of how dreary and how much younger Mizaistom looked dresses in almost all black. The large cow pattern he usually wore always made Mizaistom look wider, like he was built like a box, not an ox, and the typical domed hat that topped it all off gave the vague impression he was bald. At any rate, it was impossible to imagine him with hair. So, picture Zepile’s surprise, Zepile had told him twice already, when Mizaistom had shown up in a normal suit and no hat, looking barely thirty despite the fact that Zepile had always assumed Mizaistom was around five or ten years older. 

This time around, Zepile made the mistake of jeering and describing in too much exaggerated detail the usual impression Mizaistom gave. When he finally dare to ask how old Mizaistom actually was, Mizaistom, slightly offended at Zepile claiming to have thought he might be in his forties, refused to give a straight answer. Instead, he admitted that mastering Nen naturally slowed one’s aging. Zepile dropped the subject immediately and went back to tying his bowtie. 

“On the bright side,” said Zepile as he and Mizaistom were standing at the hall closet, putting on their coats and preparing to head downstairs, “even if you are as old as you usually dress, you were kind enough to age yourself down tonight. That’s going to make it much less awkward when you follow my lead. Try not to overstep, though. Just because you’re older, taller, richer, and more powerful than I’ll ever be, that doesn’t make you the boss of me. Got it?”

“I’ll be your guest and follow your lead,” promised Mizaistom. He cleared his throat and reached for the cup of coffee he’d made to perk himself up before the long night ahead. “Or, well...” he added before knocking back the last few tepid mouthfuls that remained, “...I’ll follow you within reason, of course.”

“And since when have I ever been unreasonable?”

Mizaistom grunted incredulously and stepped away to throw out the empty paper cup. Zepile moved to take up the space Mizaistom left behind, searching through the closet drawers for a pair of gloves better than the ones that had already been in his coat pockets. 

“Ah, shit,” hissed Zepile, and Mizaistom looked back to see Zepile once again stopping himself a millisecond before ruining his hair.

“It’s still fine,” said Mizaistom before Zepile could ask.

Mizaistom watched Zepile finish exchanging his gloves with a pair in the drawer before reaching back into the same drawer and pulling out a box with a watch inside. When Mizaistom had arrived, he’d only barely bit back a comment about how surprised he was Zepile cleaned up as well as he did. Zepile had seen the look on his face, however, and corrected him without Mizaistom having to say a word. In short, Zepile was dressing up for business. He had to look good for Neon Nostrade to subtly convince her that he was the sort of guy who knew people powerful enough to own a whole mess of Scarlet Eyes. If he didn’t look the part, he might not make a deal. There was too much money involved not to make the best impression possible.

Prompted by the mention of money, Zepile had then handed over a list of expenses he expected Mizaistom to reimburse. Mizaistom had done an instant double take, looking Zepile over and wincing at the price it’d cost him. Zepile, without a shred of sympathy, reminded him that he’d arrived to Baleno City with only the few items he’d packed to visit Leorio for a few days, so of course it’d been expensive. Mizaistom’s crazy deadline had been too tight for Zepile to take time off and go home to pick up any of the nice clothes he already owned.

Begrudgingly, Mizaistom had been forced to admit there was some sense to Zepile’s thinking. Though nothing in particular had changed in Zepile’s overall demeanor, his upscaled appearance gave his smart alec remarks the illusion of wit, made his overconfidence charismatic, and softened his businesslike shrewdness into an intelligent gleam in his eye that didn’t raise Mizaistom’s guard so high with how disconcertingly calculating it could be. It was the stark difference between a door-to-door salesman and a fresh-faced entrepreneur making his way up in the world. Embarrassed as he was to admit it, Mizaistom could imagine himself with someone like this much more easily than the chain smoking antique’s trader and sometime counterfeiter he knew Zepile as, and it unnerved him how much Zepile simply changing his appearance had caused such a radical shift in perspective. Mizaistom had always liked to believe he was more impartial than someone who was easily swayed by how a person looked.

“You aren’t by any chance a hundred years old now, are you?” asked Zepile as he pulled his sleeve over his watch and looked across the room at Mizaistom, who’d begun to stare. Mizaistom straighten his stance and walked back over, zipping up his coat as he went.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mizaistom. “I still age.” 

“How much slower is it that normal, though? Like, are you fifty but look thirty-five? Or are you seventy? Eighty?”

“If I were that old, you could tell. It’s Nen, not magic.”

Zepile opened his mouth, but froze, thought about it, and fell completely speechless. He frowned down at the watch on his wrist, his eyebrows pressed together so tightly it gave him a headache. Mizaistom reached up and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he said, secretly a little too pleased with himself for silencing Zepile so quickly. “Driver’s waiting.”

Zepile nodded, took a deep breath, and hastily tied his scarf as he headed out the door, leaving Mizaistom to get the lights himself. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Although Zepile had protested the decision during his and Mizaistom’s pre-party briefings, he’d been forced to concede that Mizaistom holding doors for him was better for security. This one, simple act, however, had pushed the absolute, borderline dictatorial control Zepile had wanted over the date into a grayer area of give and take. 

At one point, what Zepile considered the worst outcome had indeed happened when Mizaistom, without thinking, grabbed Zepile’s elbow while following him through a door. Zepile had shot him a dark look of warning, which was alarming even to Mizaistom in its suddenness and intensity. It wasn’t Mizaistom’s place to potentially start leading Zepile around a party where Zepile knew more of the guests, dating charade or no. Thankfully, the misstep had occurred at the door to the downstairs lobby, where no-one who mattered could’ve possibly seen them. Mizaistom had cleared his throat in embarrassment to apologize while letting go, and Zepile, with a put-upon sigh, had forgiven him and chivalrously extended an arm for Mizaistom to take. Mizaistom declined.

Fulmineo and Fiammata had been warned Mizaistom would be at the party, and both knew him by sight the moment he passed through the double doors at Zepile’s side. Though the siblings hadn’t expected Miziaistom as a guest, they played along by welcoming him and introducing themselves as if they’d just met. Zepile introduced Mizaistom as Mizai to everyone else who greeted them, since any Hunters at the party who knew Mizaistom would’ve also known he’d been hired to look after Zepile. In the civilian world, meanwhile, the full name Mizaistom Nana was better known than Mizaistom’s actual face. In rare instances where his face was known, it was associated with cow print attire and not the indiscreet suit he wore now, lacking both a hat and his signature black left eye. Fulmineo and Fiammata themselves had done several takes before accepting that it was really Mizaistom Nana in front of them, despite the fact that his beard was unchanged and he had on silver earrings that were the same basic hoop shape as his typical, solitary gold one.

“It’s got to be the eyeglasses,” said Zepile, shaking his head in disbelief as they finished making the rounds greeting everyone Zepile knew. “I don’t think Fiammata is fully convinced it’s really you. She probably thinks you’re a decoy to hide the real Mizai. She’s looking at all the taller men she doesn’t personally know real carefully now.”

“It’s not improbable,” admitted Mizaistom. He and Zepile watched Fiammata scrutinize another guest from over her brother’s shoulder as Fulmineo and the stranger shook hands. “In fact, that’s how a Hunter would think. Nothing can be taken on face value.”

“Hunters must have huge trust issues,” said Zepile. He pointed towards the bar and led the way. “Everything’s a trap to a Hunter. How do you live?”

“We _live_ by keeping in mind that everything’s probably a trap.”

Zepile sarcastic response went unspoken, since they’d entered the vicinity of a few people he knew from the Bagliores’ home. Mizaistom, who’d already been introduced to this group, was asked by someone if he was from Baleno City, and then by someone else how long he’d known Zepile, since Zepile had never mentioned him while visiting the Bagliores. Mizaistom recited the agreed upon script, admitting he and Zepile had only met recently through mutual friends, so there probably hadn’t been much for Zepile to share. As for where Mizaistom was from, it wasn’t Baleno City, but he said he liked the city when they asked him what he’d thought of it so far.

Though he understood the immediate appeal of a new face in a familiar crowd, Zepile was a bit miffed to see how rapidly Mizaistom ascended in popularity over Zepile himself. Not helping matters was the total one-eighty change in personality Mizaistom had undergone since the moment he’d shook hands with Fiammata Bagliore and pretended to have never met her. For one, he was more outgoing than Zepile had ever known him to be. He smiled with greater frequency, and these smiles weren’t the sorts of small, sincere types Zepile associated with the normally restrained Mizaistom. At one point, though Zepile hadn’t been listening close enough to hear what exactly had been said to incite it, Mizaistom had even laughed. When he’d realized it was Mizaistom’s voice he’d heard, Zepile had gone straight out of character by turning around to gape at him. Luckily, Mizaistom covered for Zepile’s slip-up by assuring him he didn’t mean people from York Shin like Zepile. Zepile was so disoriented by the entire situation that it didn’t occur to him to demand to know what Mizaistom had been saying.

“I remember you’re the one who told me not to be awkward here,” said Mizaistom later when the fluctuations of the groups socializing around them left them alone for a few minutes near a crackling fireplace. “You look uncomfortable, Zepile.”

Zepile crossed his arms in a disgruntled huff. “I thought you’d be more your typical self but more polite,” he said sorely. “Not Mr. Congeniality. This is not going as planned.”

“But it is going to plan. We agreed it’d be less pressure if we both socialized rather than hung off each other,” said Mizaistom. Zepile stared back at him crossly, hardly blinking as he tried to piece together the normal Mizaistom he knew well and who was speaking to him now, and the surprisingly gregarious stranger he’d been standing next to only a moment ago in the midst of a crowd. 

“It’s too weird,” said Zepile. “You’re too normal. I’m starting to understand why Fiammata Bagliore can’t tell if it’s really you or not. Are you sure you didn’t switch places with a twin?”

“That’s sort of the idea here. Misdirection.”

“Except I’m actually supposed to know you. I’m supposed to have invited you.”

“Oh,” said Mizaistom in soft realization before crossing his arms and holding his chin thoughtfully. “I see,” the murmured. He stared into the fire and thought aloud. “We probably should’ve done some sort of practice run before this. I’m sorry. I understand your concern completely. You’re right.”

Zepile sighed and looked around before reaching over to uncross Mizaistom’s arms and put them back at his sides. Mizaistom gave him an inquiring look for the brief moment their eyes met.

“You should stop that,” whispered Zepile. He leaned in and pretended to adjust Mizaistom’s coat as an excuse for tugging his arms apart. “You look exactly like _you_ you when you stand like that. It’s too obvious.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mizaistom again. He swallowed hard, aware of how close Zepile had got and how serious he’d become. Mizaistom would’ve expected a jeering grin or mischievous glance, but Zepile wasn’t in a laughing mood. He inspected Mizaistom’s suit with no other look than that of concern for how it lay.

“Honestly, though, I guess you looking like yourself isn’t half as bad as me acting like I don’t even know you,” admitted Zepile with a sheepish grin directed towards Mizaistom’s tie. “I’m sorry about that. I’ll try harder.”

On an impulse of only a fraction of a second, Mizaistom brought up a hand to Zepile’s waist and pulled him closer until they were lightly pressed against each other. At the last minute, he held back from kissing Zepile patronizingly on the forehead. It’d looked like they’d been arguing for most of the party so far, and he wanted to provide a visual cue that they’d resolved the issue, but going with his gut and following the spur of the moment had led down a path Mizaistom hesitated to continue to its obvious conclusion.

“Why are…ah, well, yeah, nevermind, this probably looks like that kinda thing, you’re right,” muttered Zepile. Mizaistom was endlessly grateful that, if anything, Zepile could read a mood. He reached up and kissed Mizaistom on the cheek, then pushed them apart and patted Mizaistom’s shoulders briefly to dispel any lingering awkwardness. 

“Let’s go see if the Nostrades have finally got here,” said Zepile. His expression flashed back into showcasing his usual, overconfident self, laughing at everything. The room itself seemed brighter as well now that the momentary physical closeness between the two of them had ended. “Gotta say hi to Neon when she gets here. Can’t keep a client waiting.”

“Yes,” said Mizaistom, far too solemn. Zepile punched Mizaistom’s arm and made a face at him, warning him to hurry and lighten up, before brushing past him on his way back into the crowd. Mizaistom, his throat suddenly dry, went to find something to drink. The heat from the fireplace was sweltering and impossible to stand close to for a second longer.

Neon Nostrade arrived fashionably late as usual, but was wealthy and important enough not to have to go around and say hello to everyone she knew to make up for it. Everyone went directly to her, instead, and Zepile was forced to wait for a break in the crowd before he could make his own approach. He didn’t want it to look like he was begging her for work the second she arrived, especially if it raised the suspicions of those looking after her, like the two female attendants who trailed just behind Neon wherever she went. Still, he did what he could for the time being, making sure to hang around where Neon could spot him and meet up with him when she wished. He explained under his breath to Mizaistom when Mizaistom caught up that he and Neon weren’t at a level where he could just stroll up to her right away and casually introduce some guy he was dating. So, they would have to wait. The people who wanted Zepile to meet Neon and sell her information about Scarlet Eyes would inevitably ensure she met up with him before the party ended.

The wait was going to be a somewhat long one, as a minute later, all the lights in to room lowered except for those on the middle of the dance floor. Automatically, the space cleared of guests in anticipation. Zepile hadn’t warned Mizaistom about the Bagliores’ show and leaned over to explain in his ear that Fulmineo and Fiammata danced, but that Fulmineo was better and would be displaying off his hot, new can-can skills. Mizaistom jerked his head back and looked at Zepile as if Zepile had misspoke, but Zepile assured him that no, it was a real can-can. Fulmineo didn’t hold back in realizing the dance in its truest form, either, as Mizaistom would soon see. A second later, Fulmineo Bagliore appeared in the center spotlight with a group of four other dancers, and the music began.

“It’s odd, but he’s sincere, and I respect that,” said Zepile through the applause once the first music number concluded. “I don’t really think he needs a skirt to dance this, though.”

“It hardly looks like a can-can without one,” Mizaistom pointed out. “Might as well do it right. He’s got the legs for it. And the kicks. He’s great.”

Zepile grumbled at this, feeling attacked simply because Mizaistom didn’t agree with him. “But, you don’t find it odd?” he asked, trying to bully Mizaistom with an accusatory tone. Mizaistom was more disappointed in Zepile than he was pressured to agree with him.

“It’s a skirt.”

“And the stockings.”

“I’ve seen more ridiculous outfits worn in even greater earnest than this,” said Mizaistom with an indifferent shrug. “I’ve literally fought people wearing...” he began to add, but stopped himself with a startled expression and looked around. He cleared his throat. “Nevermind,” he muttered. Zepile remembered an image of the current Hunter Association chairman he’d spotted on the news a week ago and was reluctantly compelled to see Mizaistom’s unfinished point. “Well, at least this outfit serves a functional purpose,” continued Mizaistom after a brief pause. “You must admit, it’s hardly a can-can without the skirt. It’s iconic.”

“I didn’t expect that you’d been so cool about it,” said Zepile as though he believed Mizaistom were lying for the sake of being contrary with him. Being so wrong about Mizaistom made Zepile feel bad, like he’d jumped to an unfair conclusion, and his disliked having misjudged someone so greatly. “Really,” he said, “you’re just so uptight all the time.”

“I stand against real crimes, Zepile, not crimes of fashion,” Mizaistom reminded him. “And anyway, it’s a tasteful skirt. And he’s got the legs for stockings. Good for him. He’s lucky to have something he’s so passionate about. It’s quite a physically demanding dance, you know, and physical activity is good for one’s health.”

Zepile couldn’t decide if Mizaistom were playing a role or being absolutely sincere in his appreciation of Fulmineo’s dedication to his second-most fulfilling hobby. The probability that Mizaistom might be less judgmental about something than Zepile himself simply didn’t compute for Zepile. Though Mizaistom didn’t know what the new problem was, he sensed the tension as it gradually, once again, formed between them. He finished his drink and searched for a waiter to hand the glass off to, hoping that, at the same time, he’d encounter some way to change the subject as well.

“Maybe Fulmineo’s a Nen Genius at the can-can,” grumbled Zepile. He was surprised at how suddenly Mizaistom spun back around to face him.

“Zepile,” hissed Mizaistom both in warning and condemnation. The music had started up again, loud enough to have drowned out Zepile’s comment about Nen to anyone close by, but Mizaistom disapproved of the carelessness that had caused Zepike to go as far as to mention it in the first place. 

“I’ll go get another drink,” shouted Zepile over the music. What he wanted was a break from Mizaistom for a few minutes. From Zepile’s personal perspective, the evening had been going terribly, and worse, it seemed as if it were mostly his own fault rather than Mizaistom’s. He wasn’t angry at Mizaistom for it, but it put him in a bad mood, and he moved brusquely as he turned to go. He was held back by a vice-like grip on his forearm. Sighing, he stopped and looked at Mizaistom, waiting. 

“You,” Mizaistom began, but he swiftly rethought his original comment, which was to caution Zepile not to drink too much, “you should get me something, too, while you’re there.” He handed Zepile his empty glass. Zepile hesitated, took it, and promised to be back in a couple of minutes. Mizaistom nodded and let him go.

Zepile handed the empty glasses off to a waiter before he reached the bar. Only after doing so did it occur to him that he had no idea what Mizaistom had been drinking. It didn’t seem responsible to just guess for him. If Mizaistom’s first drink had been alcoholic, then how much so, and how much more would put Mizaistom over the edge? Zepile didn’t want to ruin the entire mission in the last hours by getting Mizaistom drunk. Steeling himself for the shame, he looked back into the crowd to find Mizaistom and call him over. Without his distinctive hat on, however, it was practically impossible to recognize the back of Mizaistom’s head among all the rest facing the dance floor.

As Zepile proceeded to stand too long at the bar considering whether or not it would be best to bring Mizaistom back a soda or juice, someone approached and tapped him on the shoulder. For a moment, he was relieved, assuming Mizaistom had noted his prolonged absence and come to find him. Then, he saw who it actually was.

“Condolences,” said Linsen. “You have my sympathy.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Zepile. It made sense that Linsen of all people would be a guest, even if he was most likely working to protect a client at the same time. The Bagliores would’ve been gracious enough to extend him a proper invitation to him as not only an employee, but also as a friend.

“I heard from a friend of Heriol Rayo that you recently suffered a bad break-up,” said Linsen, unable to disguise the light tone of self-satisfaction and glee that permeated a person’s tone when confirming a bit of intriguing gossip. “While I agree your safety was worth bringing along Mizaistom Nana in person, I’m sorry for whatever it must’ve cost you. Rest assured, though, you made the better choice.”

“Oh,” said Zepile slowly. He came close to running his hand through his hair, but remembered how much work it would be to fix it afterwards. “Okay. That story seems to have, uh, got around fast.”

“There are several people interested in the stories surrounding you,” said Linsen. He moved forward and leaned against the bar next to Zepile. The bartender looked up, and Linsen nodded to him. Without a word, the man started on a drink.

“I mean, I guess people being so interested in me is why Fiammata Bagliore hired some big-shot Hunter guy to look out for me in the first place,” said Zepile. “Lucky me.”

“He’s doing a convincing enough job of being your date,” observed Linsen with a small smile that thought it had him figured out. “No wonder you were dumped because of him. You’d have had a hard time convincing whoever you were actually dating that it was an act. Still, I wouldn’t expect less from a true professional like Mizaistom Nana. He’s really the best.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a also great catch,” said Zepile, smiling winningly back. “It’s probably not much of an act for the guy, to be honest.”

Linsen chuckled at this and accepted his finished drink from the bartender. “Well,” he said, toasting Zepile with his full glass, “then I hope he enjoys the rest of his evening more than you seem to be doing.”

Zepile made a highly doubtful face and waved goodbye to Linsen as Linsen left to rejoin the rest of the party. If he hadn’t felt like a drink before, Zepile certainly did now. Instead, he ordered two seltzer waters for himself and Mizaistom, deciding that, with people like Linsen slinking around, lucidity far outweighed the fun of a relaxing buzz.

The spectacle of the can-can dancers had ended. Mizaistom had moved on from where Zepile had left him, likely getting adopted by one of the groups he’d been introduced to earlier that evening. Zepile wasn’t worried about it, since there weren’t many places for Mizaistom to have disappeared to. Without even trying hard, it took him less than five minutes to ultimately find Mizaistom. He was outside, leaning against the rail that ran along the rooftop as he took in the view of several lines of traffic circling in a congested stream around the city’s largest roundabout. In the middle of the roundabout was an illuminated fountain depicting the city’s three mythic heroes bearing three separate forms of illumination: a flame for fire, a lightning bolt for electricity, and a sunburst for the heavenly light of the celestial bodies, which was considered a distinct, purer variety of light than all others in old Relumbrian mythology.

“What I want to know,” said Zepile as he approached Mizaistom and nodded towards the figures in the center of the roundabout, “is where’s the hero of bioluminescence?” He held out a cup of bubbly water, which Mizaistom looked over and down into uncertainty. “It’s just water,” said Zepile. “Figured we’ve got to pace ourselves in case it’s turns out to be a long night.”

Mizaistom was about to say something, but stopped when Zepile leaned in and gave him another small kiss, this time on Mizaistom’s normally unexposed temple. “If you hang out alone like this brooding, then I have to make a move to lighten you up and apologize for leaving you by yourself,” whispered Zepile into the side of Mizaistom’s head above his left ear. “Too bad.”

Mizaistom reached up to scratch his ear without commenting.

“So, did you miss me?” Zepile asked at a normal volume as he pulled away. He didn’t get far. Mizaistom’s hand stopped scratching his ear and reached out to pull Zepile in, keeping him close. Despite the unexpected clinginess, Mizaistom had the nerve the shrug in answer to Zepile’s question.

“It took you ten minutes just to get water,” he said, speaking low so that Zepile, who was held against him, was the only one who could hear him over the sounds of the street. “You met Linsen?”

“Yes. Were you watching the entire time?”

“After a fashion.”

“Were you listening in?”

“No. I can’t hear at that distance, and I can’t read the movements of people’s lips, though I know some people who’ve mastered it. It’s a skill I’ve been meaning to train in.”

“Well, then, you missed all of Linsen’s wonderful compliments on what a great actor you are. He’s a fan. Then, you missed my hilarious retort of ‘who says he’s acting?’”

Mizaistom managed a tight, short smile. “Is that so?” he asked. 

“Linsen got a chuckle out of it.”

Mizaistom took a long drink of water and let his gaze drift back over the street below. The hand on Zepile’s shoulder dropped down to his waist and then slipped over to the small of his back.

“Hey,” warned Zepile, making a face. “Don’t let a wandering hand start something you can’t finish. You raise the ante too high, even in jest, and you’ll see I have zero hang-ups about grabbing another man’s ass in public.” 

Mizaistom spit out the mouthful of seltzer water he’d been drinking and nearly dropped the cup after it into the street. 

“That wasn’t—” Mizaistom began, puffing himself up with swelling indignance at the accusation before realizing there was no good defense for his actions. He grumbled and brought his hand back up, hooking it firmly around Zepile’s torso to make a point. Zepile complained and wriggled away in an effort to loosen Mizaistom’s hold.

“Why does Linsen think you’re convincing at all?” grumbled Zepile once Mizaistom relaxed his grip. “Here you go,” he said, offering his untouched glass to Mizaistom in a gesture of peace. “I made you spill yours, and you were actually drinking it. Have mine.”

Mizaistom accepted the offer and switched glasses. Zepile took it that he’d been forgiven, and sighed with relief.

“You know, I wonder,” said Zepile as he leaned into the railing and rolled his new, empty glass between his hands. “If you had like a deep undercover, long-term sort of mission, and you had to pretend to date or even be married to someone else…”

“I’ve never had to pretend to date anyone for longer than a few weeks.”

“I don’t mean you personally. I mean you hear about spies and sleeper agents pretending to be married as cover. Imagine that. It’s crazy. Wouldn’t that be too much for people to take after literal years?”

“I don’t know. And I’ve never been in a position to ask anyone who would know about it,” said Mizaistom. “However, I’d imagine two professionals shouldn’t encounter many problems. It’s a job.”

“I guess. I’m not a professional by any means, though. Maybe that’s why I keep thinking it’s so weird and difficult to do this sort of thing even just for a few hours. I can’t imagine it as a full-time job. Blows my mind.” 

Mizaistom shrugged. “Luckily, in this case, it’s just one night,” he said. He took another drink and scanned the area for anyone in earshot. He made a show of glancing back over his shoulder as well, but Zepile ignored the hint.

“If someone’s not the type to get too easily attached, I think, then they’ll be alright,” he speculated. “At least in theory. Maybe there’s a test for that.”

“I don’t know of one.”

“I mean, speaking for myself, I don’t know how I’d handle it. When it comes to it, I can decide if maybe I’d sleep with someone after one date. But like, other than that? Would I get attached over time to someone I’m basically assigned to in spite of myself? That’s harder. A spy or sleeper agent can’t possibly know, either, before they agree to that kind of mission.”

Mizaistom sighed and shook his head. “Seriously? Why are you thinking about this kind of thing now, of all times?”

“When best to think it? I’m practically kind of living it right now.”

“Not really. You’re doing a very mediocre job at best. Probably because you’re wasting time thinking about stuff that doesn’t matter instead of staying focused.”

“You saying don’t think this stuff?” asked Zepile. Mizaistom shrugged. “Liar,” said Zepile. Mizaistom didn’t say a word, only sipped his drink.

“Fine,” said Zepile with a groan. “It’s just me, then. Okay. I admit I’m not an expert, and when you don’t know stuff, you speculate more because there’s simply more questions in your head to go over.”

Mizaistom narrowed his eyes. “What exactly don’t you know?” he asked slowly, almost unwillingly, and yet he couldn’t resist.

“Relationships. Long ones. How they affect the mind. I never think very far ahead with that stuff. I move around too much to even have what you’d call ‘real’ relationships to begin with. It’s very hard to find folks who wait around. It’s the kind of waiting where someone has to have known you for ages before they’d be willing to put up with it.”

“In a sense, it’s the same for Hunters. The moving around.”

“Yeah. Hunters have enough issues as it is. Imagine dating.”

Mizaistom took a slow, deep breath and moved his hand up to Zepile’s shoulder again to shake him by it lightly in a mild reprimand.

“Why,” he asked with a pronounced sigh in his voice, “do you think Hunters don’t or can’t date? What exactly is your problem?”

Zepile laughed and shrugged Mizaistom’s hand off. “It just sort of seems like a lot of work on top of all the other stuff Hunter’s have got going on,” he said. Mizaistom was impressed but also a little disheartened by how quickly the answer had come. “Hunters have better, more important stuff to do than us normal people. Even you’d agree with that.”

“Hunters are human beings, Zepile.” 

“I mean, yes.”

“Human beings.”

“I know.”

“It doesn’t seem like you actually know that.”

“I do. I do know. I know like five Hunters, now. Six counting Linsen. All of them human. All of them, also, very single.”

“Linsen is single?” asked Mizaistom with a smirk and a long side glance. “And how did that come up between you both?”

“Haha, funny, Mizai. I didn’t actually mean I know for a fact if Linsen’s single.”

“Two of the other Hunters you know are children.”

“Fine. I’ll give you that. They don’t count.”

“The other two are Leorio and Kurapika.”

“Uh, I actually wasn’t counting Kurapika. He and I have never had a conversation.”

“So, you’re saying Senritsu is single.”

“I don’t know, but maybe.”

“What’s your proof?”

“I have a gut feeling.”

“Gut feelings are inadmissible as evidence in the court of making baseless assumptions about people you don’t know very well. You’ll need better proof than that.”

“Well, you’re single, right?”

“I told you gut feelings are inadmissible as evidence.”

“You said you move around too much, too. That’s proof.”

“I spoke generally about Hunters. I never admitted I, personally, was single because of it.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

Mizaistom didn’t hesitate. “I am,” he said. Zepile leaned back a little from the railing to get a better look at the side of his face as if a new light were shining on it, but Mizaistom gave nothing away as he watched the traffic.

“Go figure,” muttered Zepile. Louder, he asked, “And how long have you been single?”

“Is that pertinent to anything?”

“Nope. I’m just curious.”

“It’s none of your business.”

Zepile laughed, but didn’t press the matter. Instead of feeling relieved that he’d backed off, Mizaistom felt strangely rejected by the lack of interest. Oblivious, Zepile leaned over the railing in a stance that deliberately mimicked Mizaistom’s own and stared down into traffic. For how intently Mizaistom he been watching it so far, however, the slow shuffling of cars and pedestrians wasn’t even moderately engaging to Zepile. He grew bored and restless after less than a minute.

“Linsen said you’re really good at acting as my plus one,” said Zepile, turning back after a loud yawn. “Normally, I’d think that made sense, because you’d just assume Hunters are probably naturally great at everything, but I know you, so, I know it’s not just some natural gift you have.”

“What’s your point?”

“That I take it back. Hunters can and do date. You and Leorio seem to have a handle on it. Maybe relationships don’t ever work out given the circumstances you live under, but you’re not total selfish losers who can’t handle the company of other human beings.”

Mizaistom smiled slightly, glad Zepile had at least sort of apologized. “Well, thanks,” he said.

“And also, I get the situation you’re in,” said Zepile. “I know what that’s like.” He bent down to place the empty glass he was holding on the ground between his feet. “Hunters don’t have a monopoly on true and utter selfishness, believe me,” he explained as he stood back up. He let his shoulder press against Mizaistom’s as he slouched over the rail alongside him and moved his hands around endlessly to help him speak. “But, at least your selfishness contributes to society, though. Mine…well, it just contributes to me. I’d just rather be haggling over antiques and ripping off unscrupulous dealers all around the world, I guess, instead of fostering a real connection to anyone. That’s probably why I give you a hard time saying Hunters can’t date. Because I suck at it, and I like to tell myself you’re worse than me. It's supposed to make me feel better. It doesn't really, but whatever. I still take it a little too personally whenever you prove me wrong. I get annoyed with Leorio for the same thing, too. Don't assume you're special.”

“If we're being fair, then I should point out that Hunters don’t typically make the time for activities like dating, not ususally,” confessed Mizaistom. “A part of the problem is that Hunters tend to work and socialize with other Hunters. It’s not the best environment. Given that, the bad impression others have of us shouldn’t really come as a surprise to anyone.”

Zepile nodded, letting his fidgetting hands go limp for a moment. He'd reached to pull a cigarette from his pocket while Mizaistom had been talking, but remembered he hadn't brought any along. Whenever Zepile had to get serious about work, he stupidly went cold turkey on his usual vices, as if dropping his bad habits would win him favor with whatever forces of fate decided the outcomes of risky enterprises beyond his control. The usual result, unfortunately, was that he'd end up stressing himself out physically as well as mentally, thereby making everything worse and increasing his chance of failure. And yet, for the sake of some illusion that his luck would be better, he still make the same unwise choice to abstain every single time.

Zepile headed back to the large double doors leading inside and peeked through the glass to check on where Neon Nostrade was. Mizaistom told him she was learning how to dance from Fulmineo, and in seconds Zepile spotted them both on the dance floor spinning around and laughing. It looked like fun, and he smiled. He stopped smiling when he realized Mizaistom wasn't looking, but had mysteriously just known, somehow, what was going on inside.

“So, like, have you ever dated a Hunter?” asked Zepile as he returned to the rail. "Seeing how you all only hang out with each other."

“No.”

“C’mon. Not even for a mission?”

Mizaistom frowned. “Ah, well, that doesn’t count. And it’s only been once so far.”

“How deep undercover was it? Top-secret stuff?”

“Not very.”

“You know I have to ask, but: _Did it ever get weird?_ ”

“No.”

“Not even like, for a second, though? Really? Just like, in the back of your mind, maybe a stray thought here and there?”

“Never. Not even once.”

“Yeah, right. Don't lie to me, we're friends. Are you sure there was nothing?”

“I am absolutely sure,” said Mizaistom, but couldn't tell why he'd almost smiled as he'd spoke. Maybe Zepile's blatant curiosity made him feel interesting. Mizaistom wasn't above the temporary ego-boost that being asked about himself provided. Honestly, it was probably why he'd been letting this conversation go on for as long as it had. That, and the fact that going back inside and having to play boyfriends among strangers wasn't as appealing as biding their time chatting outside in relative peace and quiet. Being unable to smoke away his stress was making Zepile restless, so the less time he spent casting Mizaistom dark looks across the room, the less often people would be pulling Mizaistom aside as they had been when Zepile had gone to get drinks, asking him if Zepile was feeling alright. Mizaistom didn't want Neon Nostrade to refrain from meeting Zepile that night because someone had told her he'd been in a bad mood since he'd arrived.

“We were working on a larger team,” said Mizaistom. Zepile straightened up and looked over, both intrigued and delighted that Mizaistom was going to share more than a few short, evasive answers about his undercover dating experience. “We only worked together during a handful of couples-only events, and we'd often split up to cover more ground once we were inside. Since we'd never met before the mission, we weren’t nearly close enough for it to 'get weird' for us. We weren’t even friends, and we never really got to know each other. The most we needed to know was each other's cover stories and roles in the mission. Out of the field, we remained strangers, and we aren't in touch now. In fact, in comparison to then, you and I have worked much closer and for a far longer time. Fortunately, the only event you and I have to attend together is this one.”

Zepile had been leaning in, hanging on every word, as Mizaistom gave away as much as he could allow himself to. Now, a slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. “Wait, so, are you admitting,” he asked, barely stifling his laughter, “that if we’d pretended to date longer than this, that things maybe would’ve actually got weird for you? Am I hearing that right?”

“Maybe for a second,” said Mizaistom. “Maybe a stray thought, like you said. Nothing unprofessional that would’ve endangered the success of the mission, however.”

“For _me_?”

Mizaistom froze as the astonished, half-kidding question hit him in the gut. Zepile's laughter stopped with similar suddenness. He was having trouble believing his eyes as he watched Mizaistom lose his composure, growing so flustered he couldn’t even speak up to defend himself. Countless times before, Zepile had tried and failed to obtain a similarly candid, embarrassed reaction from Mizaistom, but he hadn't expected it happen now, when he'd mostly been joking. Inadvertently, Mizaistom was revealing far too much, not only to Zepile but also to himself, and the longer he failed to come up with an answer that could defuse the tension, the more excruciating the awkwardness between them grew.

Zepile felt no rush of self-satisfaction or the desire to preen over his surprise victory. He was easily as uncomfortable and embarrassed as Mizaistom, if not more so from the mortification of knowing he'd created this situation by saying something so profoundly stupid. Despite the unbecoming stammer in his voice, Zepile took responsibility and diverted the course of the conversation in hopes that he could mitigate Mizaistom’s embarrassment by taking on more of it himself.

“You know, we’re lucky we didn’t even have to pretend date more than this much,” said Zepile. “You see how bad I am at acting? Well, that’s because in reality, I’m like a joke when it comes to dating. I suck at it. Just clueless. I always play cool, but the reality is I’ll fall for anyone who alerts me to the fact that they’re interested. It’s like there isn’t even a thought process involved, like I don’t even have a brain. I’m just immediately all in, like a fool, and then I ruin the whole thing by trying to keep the other person from realizing how hopeless I actually am. So, if you and I had been pretending to date for longer than just this one thing, I’d definitely have started to mix up fact and fiction, got myself all messed up and heartbroken over absolutely nothing. I know it. I promise you. You remember how much I was dreading even this one night, right? I know I suck. I’m weak as shit. I literally have no defenses. Trust me. You on your end maybe possibly having a single, fleeting, somewhat unprofessional thought is nothing compared to the knots I’d have tied myself into in the same situation over time. That’s the truth.”

Mizaistom ran a hand down his face in chagrin as Zepile rambled on, rounding out the nightmare. Eventually, the hand stopped and rested over Mizaistom’s mouth, moving with him as he nodded along in agreement to everything Zepile was saying, despite only hearing him in parts.

“I think it’s because, like I said, the nature of my work involves a lot of moving around and unstable finances. You can’t really pull other people into that kind of life on good conscience. It’s not a stable enough position for me to be picky, so, I just get really invested really fast into the few people who, at least for a while, will give me the time of day. I can’t waste my time holding out for a better deal. Whatever I get is as good as it gets. Beggars can’t be choosers. Take what’s offered. Adjust expectations to the circumstances. All that.”

Unsurprisingly, none of what Zepile was going on about was remotely helpful to either him or Mizaistom, but at this point, he was just trying to outline his own flaws in order to turn the focus away from Mizaistom. It failed. Mizaistom was wishing he had a real drink in his hand and not a glass of water with effervescence so strong he could hear it between the traffic from the street and Zepile’s stammered paragraphs of bumbling self-defamation.

“Zepile, please. Be more prudent,” said Mizaistom, his voice emerging gruffer and harsher than he wanted, because it was the only way to force the words out. “Going on about stupid things like that will make anyone listening think they have a chance with you. All they have to do is confess.”

“I mean, yeah, I guess it’s not really fair if you say it around someone you suspect likes you, but it’s not like you’re…” Zepile faltered. “…I mean, you’re not someone who…uh….”

It was impressive how long Zepile was able to stave off the realization of something he and Mizaistom both knew he was smart enough to have picked up on already. Gradually they both fell into the same long, painfully aware silence, unwilling to look over and catch the other’s eye first.

“Well…” began Zepile, barely finishing the word before lapsing into silence as if it’d washed over him in a wave to stifle him on Mizaistom’s pleading behest. He took a long deep breath, held it, and let it out slow. He did so again two more times, building up the resolve to speak little by little each time, because Zepile had never once solved a problem by shutting up in his life. “Well, it’s just this…one event. So hey…lucky that, then.”

Zepile needed to do something better than standing around feeling wierd. He pushed himself away from the rail and collected the empty glass he’d left on the ground between his feet. Mizaistom straighten up as well, raising the water to his lips but finding his stomach was in too many knots to take even the smallest sip. He lowered the glass uselessly to his side and looked back through the window glass towards the rest of the party carrying on full of lively energy untouched by the suffocating feeling of the air just outside.

The only reassuring thing Mizaistom could tell himself was that, in the end, at least he was honest. A subtle, secret attraction to someone, whether one knew it was there or not, would anyway lose a lot of its power once the feelings were exposed. Rejection offered closure, too, which was the most necessary component for moving on, and the best kind of rejection, direct and absolute, could only be obtained if everything were out in the open.

Before heading back inside, Zepile reached out to Mizaistom to pat his shoulder in a reassuring and yet quietly consoling gesture. He offered a firm squeeze as well and smiled in the small, resigned way any inherently kind person would in similar circumstances. He was on the verge of saying something lighthearted and dismissive to break up the awkwardness when one of the glass paneled doors leading into the party swung open, and someone called out his name over the sounds of music and conversation that flooded out with them.

“Zepile! There you are, out here in the cold. I was looking for you all over. I was starting to think you’d really left. Linsen totally made it sound like he’d scared you off. What a jerk.”

Zepile greeted Neon Nostrade with a ready smile and apologized to her for not having gone to speak to her sooner. She barely registered Mizaistom’s presence over Zepile’s shoulder beyond a cursory glance, and didn’t give Zepile an opportunity to introduce him as she began talking excitedly about how fun the party was before transitioning abruptly into asking if Zepile would like to talk to her about business and getting her hands on a pair of Scarlet Eyes. 

“Of course!” replied Zepile energetically. He’d slipped on his salesman persona the moment he’d heard her call his name, so everything he said overflowed with more enthusiasm than he felt. “One moment, I need to talk to—”

Zepile looked over his shoulder and realized with a start that Mizaistom was gone. He spun completely around in astonishment, the crazy thought crossing his mind that Mizaistom had maybe leapt from the roof to escape. He looked past Neon and saw that only her attendants standing behind her, no bodyguards in sight, and reminded himself that if Kurapika wasn’t there, then his new goal was to obtain a meeting with him in person sometime after the party. The next best thing to meeting Kurapika that same night was figuring out which Nostrade headquarters he currently worked from. Before anything else, that was Zepile’s primary focus. Whatever pressing issues had just driven Mizaistom away were unimportant. Zepile couldn’t miss the opportunity to finally speak to Neon about Scarlet Eyes.

“Well, nevermind,” he said. “The guy seems to have wandered off. Guess he was nervous.”

Neon didn’t ask who Zepile was talking about. She didn’t care.

“Come on, I’ve arranged a meeting room downstairs so we can talk better,” said Neon. “This is business. I’m very serious about it. Also, Fiammata won’t bug us. She’s been hovering like a mosquito over my shoulder all night, and it’s annoying. I sent Linsen to distract her so that I could find you at last and we could _finally_ talk in peace, because honestly, he’s been super bugging me too.”

“Terrific,” agreed Zepile distractedly. “Two birds with one stone. Smart.” 

Neon started to head back inside after complaining that it was too cold, but one of the women with her pointed out that it’d be better to go around the party using the mostly empty rooftop terrace, rather than cut through the crowd and risk being seen by Linsen or Fiammata. Neon praised her for how clever that was and agreed even as she shivered in her sleeveless dress. Zepile removed his jacket and handed it over.

“No wonder you’re out here forever,” said Neon as her attendants helped wrap the jacket around her and she not-subtly glanced to check the brand. “You’ve got way warmer clothes on.”

A blithe comment about how his date’s arm around his shoulders had helped him endure caught in Zepile’s throat. Something he normally would’ve said with flippant ease now seemed much too forward to joke around about. 

“Let’s hurry,” said Zepile, “before I freeze to death. Got to keep moving to stay warm.”

Neon laughed as Zepile exaggerated a shiver and rubbed his hands together. Together, she, Zepile, and her two attendants crossed the terrace to the opposite side. They snuck back into the party, Neon using Zepile’s jacket to cover her face and hair, as if such a precaution would do much to keep her from being recognized. Her attendants led the way, keeping lookout as they slipped out the ballroom doors and into the entrance hall. Once the coast was clear, Neon handed the coat over to the nearest attendant, who passed it back to Zepile when they were in the elevator. 

As they traveled down a floor, Zepile wondered if Mizaistom was still watching along in whatever way he did that somehow didn’t require being in the same room or using his eyes. He hoped Mizaistom was. He remembered Linsen’s warning about disappearing on his own and exposing himself to danger, but told himself that that surely wasn’t the case here. He wasn’t alone; he was with Neon Nostrade and two of her attendants. It was perfectly safe. Nothing would ever happen to Neon in a place like this. She was someone important.

Zepile wasn’t a bad liar, but wasn’t too great at deluding himself. Neon was important, yes, but Zepile wasn’t important at all. Of all the Hunters, mafia members, and social elite, Mizaistom was the only person present who maybe had Zepile’s best interests at heart, and Mizaistom wasn’t there.

The thought of Mizaistom’s professional concern for his well-being lead Zepile to remember the crippling embarrassment he’d suffered only moments ago. Uninvited, his mind began recounting the even more embarrassing things Zepile had gone on and on about, making everything exponentially worse. Without thinking of where he was, Zepile sighed and shook his head in remorse.

“Are you okay?” asked Neon, more annoyed and confused than concerned about him. Zepile perked up immediately.

“I’m fine. Just tired,” he said.

“I see. Eliza will bring you coffee once we start the meeting,” Neon assured him. She took his arm when the elevator doors opened and led him down the hall to a door where a tall, shirtless man with a beard stood guard. Zepile looked the man over and wondered if he felt cold at all dressed that way with only a thin vest and pants on. The man caught his eye and nodded in greeting. Zepile smiled weakly back.

“Time to get down to business!” cheered Neon as they entered the meeting room together. She called over her shoulder, “Coffee, Eliza!”, and the attendant to her left nodded and stepped away while the other gently motioned Zepile to take a seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite having taught the name to all my devices, it's still such a pain having to catch all the times "Zepile" gets autocorrected to "Zeppelin" or "Zepike" in these chapters.


	25. Neon

The meeting room was an unused smoking lounge Neon had selected because, in her opinion, it felt more businesslike. Remembering she was a mafia heiress, Zepile understood why. The dark, shadowy room with creaking leather armchairs and wood paneled walls gave off a distinct, traditionally masculine air of comfort and power which Neon had undoubtedly learned from her father was the necessary backdrop when one wished to talk business with a potential new hire.

No strong drinks or cigars were offered, however, because Neon stated that she disliked both. The strongest thing Zepile would get was his coffee, which arrived in a carafe set on a platter with a matching mug and service set. Eliza placed the platter on the low coffee table in front of Zepile and poured him a cup, which he accepted gratefully. Neon, after telling Zepile outright that she was only being polite in doing so, waited, and lay across the arms of a wide leather loveseat, scrolling through messages on her phone and occasionally playing segments of videos she either skipped through or didn’t finish. When Zepile finished his first sip and settled into his seat, she put the phone down and sat part of the way back up.

“Okay, finally, we can talk,” said Neon. “I want to hire you to sell some stuff for me, okay? Kurapika’s been bugging me to downsize my collection, and I have to sell some stuff before he’ll let me buy anything new. He said I should be happy he’s letting me buy anything at all with the money instead of selling everything himself and using it to pay off my father’s debts. He’s such a pain.”

“Who’s Kurapika?” asked Zepile. He didn’t think he sounded very convincing, but it would’ve been more suspicious to act as if he’d already known.

“Ugh. Okay. Well, he’s this guy who works for us and runs everything, because my dad’s sick,” said Neon. She sighed and adjusted one of the lose baubles in her hair, but let go when an attendant stepped forward to refasten it for her. “Anyway, my dad does everything he says, doesn’t even listen to me at all. Kurapika’s pretty much the boss now. I hate it. He hates my collection. I know he does.”

“Has Kurapika approved hiring me? He sounds like a guy I don’t want to get on the wrong side of.”

When the bauble was fixed, Neon pulled herself all the rest of the way upright in her seat, until she was sitting in it properly with her feet on the floor. She rested her hands on either armrest and leaned forward in a cool, confidential manner. Zepile lowered his cup of coffee and leaned forward as well.

“Here’s the thing. _You’re_ going to have to ask him for the job. If I ask him, he’ll just do the opposite, because he hates my collection, and he’ll be jealous if I get good money on my own for the stuff I want to sell.”

“Why would he be jealous of that?” asked Zepile, making the mistake of thinking of the Kurapika he’d seen and heard about from Leorio, and not the version of Kurapika that Neon either knew personally, or had made up in her mind.

“Because it’s mine, and he can’t get rid of it fast enough.”

“Right,” said Zepile. He nodded and took a long sip of coffee, ignoring the fact that it was slightly too hot to gulp down without burning his mouth. Finishing the cup at once, he busied himself with pouring a second.

“He’ll definitely hire you,” said Neon, her voice becoming sweeter because she’d realized Zepile might be having second-thoughts after she’d complained so much about Kurapika. “Linsen was warning me you’re not well-known, so maybe I shouldn’t trust you. But that also means Kurapika will probably assume you’re not great at selling stuff, either, because Linsen’s going to tell him the same thing, too. He’ll hire you in a heartbeat.” 

“You don’t trust Linsen’s advice?”

Neon scoffed at the notion. “Linsen doesn’t know anything,” she said. “I heard about you from Fiammata and Fulmineo, and they said you’re great, and they would know better than Linsen. All Linsen knows is how to butt into things that are none of his business, and then go snitch to Kurapika. It’s a good thing he’s with Fiammata and Fulmineo all the time these days, because I can’t stand him. Good riddance.”

“I see,” said Zepile. He sat back with the new coffee, entwining his fingers around the hot surface of the mug for warmth in the strangely chill room. “So, how am I supposed to approach your family’s boss Kurapika for this job? I don’t even know him.”

“He knows about you, though. I tried to get him to meet you when I heard you knew someone with Scarlet Eyes. I was going to use that as my excuse to suggest hiring you to manage the sale of my collection. But, he wouldn’t do it. He said you weren’t worth the trouble or the risk. He says there’s a new rumor about Scarlet Eyes every other week now and told me to give up on ever getting my hands on another pair.”

“Oh, are you interested in Scarlet Eyes?” asked Zepile, like he was the only person in Baleno City who didn’t know. “My source is legitimate, although no-one seems to believe me.”

“I love them!” exclaimed Neon, clasping her hands together with a loud clap. “I used to have a pair of my own,  and I would stare into them forever. They were so beautiful!” She paused and frowned, letting her hands drop and separate. “But, unfortunately, they got stolen.”

“That’s too bad,” said Zepile. On accident, he noticed Eliza’s chest heave once with a subtle, silent sigh. 

“It was the worst,” said Neon with a sad sigh. “My dad spent like all our money on them, I guess? And now, Kurapika’s in charge.”

Zepile tactfully changed the subject back to business. Neon was starting to look a little too nostalgic. “And how am I going to meet him? This guy Kurapika?”

“Oh, yes, that,” said Neon, snapping back to attention. “Well, since you and I are here at the same party, I have a great plan. I’ve been telling everyone that I’m looking for someone to sell some of my collection for me. Lots of them have been suggesting you, so like, you can just go to Kurapika on my invitation and tell him you heard I was looking for someone. It won’t look too much like I asked you specifically. Kurapika will think we just crossed paths at the party, and when he realizes that you’re some new guy no-one knows well, then, he’ll hire you. Easy-peasy.”

“How are you so sure he’ll hire me?”

“Because he’s a jerk, but he still feels bad about losing all my dad’s money on Scarlet Eyes. So, now, every time he hears a rumor about them, no matter how random, he eventually checks it out. It’ll be a good excuse for him to check out if you actually know anything, and I’ll actually get a competent seller to make me some money. In a sense, everyone wins.”

“What am I winning?”

“You’ll get whatever it is, a commission or something.”

“Do you want to hear my rates?”

“No,” said Neon with a derisive snort. “You and Kurapika can talk about all that boring stuff. I don’t care.”

“And when would he and I meet?”

“It depends. I’m pretty sure he’s going to be at our Lucio office for the next few days. Said something about a contract there that he has to deal with. So, it’d be best if you can meet him there, I dunno, tomorrow? It’ll be hard to figure out where he’s going next without him getting suspicious about why I suddenly care. Plus, I want you to get started as soon as possible.”

“It’s alright. I’m free tomorrow,” said Zepile. “Even if I weren’t, I’d make myself free anyway. It’s not everyday you get the chance to work for a big family like the Nostrades, right? Human body parts has been a surprisingly lucrative market for me. I might switch over to it from antiques.”

“You should,” said Neon with authentic, though somewhat overbearing, enthusiasm. “These kind of treasures are so much better than stuffy antiques. They’re just cool, you know?”

“They’re something really special,” agreed Zepile. He drank more coffee to keep from having to elaborate any further on how much he loved flesh collecting. Neon didn’t ask. She launched into an unsolicited explanation of her favorite pieces for him instead. Zepile sipped away at his coffee through nearly pursed lips as he listened. To stay on track, he suggested she tell him more about some of the things she was planning to sell, since it might help him find buyers. Neon didn’t need more of an invitation than this to go into exhaustive detail. 

It felt like hours to Zepile when Neon finally finished going through every item she could possibly think of along with a few extras in just in case. She didn’t mind that everything she’d said was impossible for Zepile to remember. The thrill of talking about her treasures, for any reason, overcame any pretense of providing Zepile with practical information.

“Here’s the address,” said Neon once she deemed the meeting had concluded. Zepile stood to take a notepad from her and sat back down, reading over what she’d written. “Memorize that. Kurapika will get pissed if someone else has it, so you’re going to have to give it back to me.”

“I’ve got it,” said Zepile, tapping the side of his head to indicate it was safely stored away. The attendant he didn’t know the name of approached and took the notepad back.

“Awesome,” said Neon. She got up from her chair with a small hop and waved goodbye. “I’m heading out first, okay? We can’t go back together. People will say weird stuff.”

“Not that weird, I hope. I have a boyfriend,” Zepile reminded her. Saying it made him feel strange, and he wished he’d just let her leave without making any comment at all.

“You mean that old guy with the beard?” asked Neon.

“Yes.”

“Oh. Tell him to shave it. Beards are ugly.”

“I, uh, don’t mind it.”

“If he ever gets a moustache, dump him. Moustaches are always gross.”

“It’s his face, his choice.”

“Yeah, but if you think about it, you’re the one who’s got to look at it all day, so like, really, it affects you more than it does him.”

On this note, leaving Zepile speechless in her wake, Neon departed to rejoin the party. Zepile remained sitting by himself in the dim-lit smoking room, slouched all the way down in a dark leather chair capable of holding men twice his size between its smooth, cool arms. He brought his hands together as if in prayer and rested his lips against them, thinking about Mizaistom again, because he’d thought about Mizaistom’s beard as Neon had left. Now, he was thinking about the whole rest of Mizaistom as he knew him and fact that apparently someone like Zepile had a chance, given the proper time and context, if he only dared to press his luck.

Zepile tried and failed to make up excuses for whatever the wandering, unprofessional thoughts Mizaistom might’ve had might’ve meant besides the obvious. He failed because he remembered Mizaistom’s overreaction after being called out. There was really only one obvious explanation for it. The next, most natural question Zepile had to ask himself, was, if Mizaistom were interested in someone like him, was he in turn interested in someone like Mizaistom back? 

“It’s too much,” groaned Zepile, letting his hands drop. The empty room came back into focus along with an appreciation of the weight of the fact that he’d been left there entirely alone. With a sinking stomach, he remembered Linsen telling him not to wander off.

“Shit,” muttered Zepile as he looked around. He didn’t know what else to say. Even the coffee was gone. “Shit,” he whispered again, softer. “ _Shit_.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Ideally, Mizaistom would’ve joined Zepile and Neon Nostrade, but he could tell from Neon’s utter inability to register his presence that she wouldn’t have accepted him tagging along. To Neon, Mizaistom was just another guest she didn’t know. Zepile was the one she had business with. Therefore, Mizaistom had used Zetsu and stepped away when Zepile wasn’t looking. It was the only way to avoid an awkward conversation that would’ve made Neon suspicious about why Zepile was so insistent his date tag along.

Linsen found Mizaistom after Zepile and Neon had gone downstairs with her attendants. He greeted Mizaistom with a smile in his eyes that didn’t spread across his lips, and asked him if he was “Mizai”, Zepile’s companion. His ironic manner made it perfectly clear that he knew precisely who Mizaistom was, and at least one version of why Mizaistom was there. Mizaistom greeted him back coldy with only a single, curt nod.

“You seem to be spending half the evening getting stood up and left in some corner or another,” said Linsen. He graciously motioned for Mizaistom to join him. “Let me play host. My clients are busy and don’t know what an important guest you are. Neither does your date, apparently.”

Mizaistom followed Linsen away from the dance floor, past the catering tables, and back towards the kitchen, where trays of food were being assembled and given final touches of sauce and garnishes before being sent out. From the kitchen, he and Linsen entered a small room lit with rows of uncomfortably bright fluorescent lights. A handful event staff on break were seated around a card table, drinking and playing while a fourth sat at a gray metal desk along the wall with his feet propped up. Linsen ordered them all to leave, and grumbling, they got up, cleared the card table, and shuffled out.

“Have a seat,” said Linsen, claiming the folding chair behind the desk for himself. “I won’t force the famous, Two-star Hunter Mizaistom Nana to stand.”

Mizaistom turned one of the recently emptied chairs around to face the desk. He sat down in it heavily, bringing his arms up and crossing them tightly over his chest, his sternest expression already set in place.

“I want to have a talk about our mutual friend, your client, Mr. Zepile,” said Linsen. Mizaistom’s scowl intensified. “He won’t tell me who he’s working for, but he says it’s a Hunter.” 

As he spoke, Linsen folded his hands together over the desk and sat forward, businesslike despite the shabby break room surroundings. “Since you’re also a Hunter, but with higher investigative clearance than practically anyone else in the entire Association, I figured you might have had access to more specific information.”

“Why would I bother with whoever he’s working for?” asked Mizaistom with no change in expression. “I’m not involved in his work in Baleno City. The Bagliores hired me, not Zepile.”

“I’d thought you’d have asked him. He’s your principle, isn’t he? It might be important while protecting him to know who you’re up against should his working relationship with that Hunter turn sour.”

With a dismissive grunt, Mizaistom conceded Linsen had a point. “And if I knew?” he asked. “Why would I tell you? It’s sensitive information.” 

Linsen took in a breath to explain, but Mizaistom spoke over him. “Or,” suggested Mizaistom, “is this how the Nostrade family operates their business? Perhaps you sell your clients’ secrets to anyone who offers to pay?” Mizaistom let a beat of silence pass, but Linsen didn’t dare interrupt. “Are you planning to bribe me?”

“I’d never attempt to bribe Mizaistom Nana,” promised Linsen. “I’m not a fool.”

“So, you think I’ll just volunteer sensitive information about my client’s business dealings on my own for nothing. Why?”

“I was hoping you’d want to help, seeing how we’re almost colleagues,” said Linsen. Mizaistom felt the radius of Linsen’s En expand by several feet beyond the office, making sure no-one was eavesdropping outside. “I’m investigating Zepile’s claim that he has information about Scarlet Eyes. We suspect that whoever is behind the rumor is trying to draw out the collector who’s been snatching up every Kurta eye on the market. This individual could be a Treasure Hunter, or a Contract Hunter, or worse, a Nen-user impersonating a Hunter.”

“Why would the Nostrade family care so much about someone selling Scarlet Eyes? I heard that your boss lost a gamble bidding too high on a pair last year and nearly bankrupted your entire organization. I’d think that’d have been a strong incentive to stay away from Scarlet Eyes in the future.”

“Our new boss is searching for the pair we lost to reclaim it. He wants to catch whoever has been acquiring all the eyes for themselves, since he thinks that person owns the pair he’s looking for. It’s already an open secret that the Nostrade family follows leads on Scarlet Eyes, even as we’ve lessen our presence in other aspects of the human body part collecting market. This new Hunter that’s arrived with Zepile might end up getting in our way.”

“That sounds like a matter between your new boss and the Hunter. Maybe your new boss should take Zepile’s offer and meet with this Hunter. Maybe they can work together.”

“My boss has no interest in collaborations.”

“Then, your boss will fail at whatever it is he’s so desperately trying to accomplish on his own.”

The lower of Linsen’s folded hands balled into a fist. He inhaled deeply through his nose, steadying himself and refraining from an unbecoming outburst. He sighed forcefully, and then, reluctantly, he tried another approach.

“You know who Leorio Paladiknight is, correct?” asked Linsen. Mizaistom nodded. “Well, our boss thinks this is a bogus lead and that Leorio is the real source.” 

“Why would your boss suspect Leorio Paladiknight?”

“Because Leorio and our boss have a history, and Leorio and Zepile are friends. Leorio might be using Zepile to reach out to Kurapika, but it’s a stupid plan, and it puts Zepile in danger for stupid reasons. If you’re hired to protect Zepile, then you should know that already. In the current market climate, it’s not safe to go around saying you have information for sale about Scarlet Eyes. No-one wants to buy unverified information, so instead, they will try to take it from him. By force or...other means.”

“Such as when you when you first encountered Zepile yourself? Those sorts of means? Using Nen against a defenseless civilian?”

Linsen grimaced and looked away. “More than that,” he said. “My boss had already ordered me not to hurt him. He wasn’t in real danger with me. I’ve even been looking out for him at the Bagliores’, making sure he doesn’t wander off by himself and get in trouble. The Bagliores won’t hurt him, but you can’t trust their ‘friends’.”

Mizaistom tried to locate Zepile once more, but his presence, along with Neon Nostrade and her two attendants, had moved out of his range moments before Linsen had approached him. He knew they’d gone downstairs. There was nothing in the hall they could’ve disappeared so quickly into except for the elevator...except, perhaps, though Mizaistom dreaded the possibility, teleportation Nen were involved. That didn’t explain where Neon had gone, and Mizaistom highly doubted Linsen would be spending precious time talking to him if a Nostrade family member had gone missing.

Linsen noticed Mizaistom’s look of concern. “I know I’ve pulled you away from your principle, but don’t worry,” he assured him. “Zepile is with Neon, so, he’s safe. The Nostrade family is looking after him. Indeed, our new boss plans to meet with Zepile later. He wants to explain to Zepile that he doesn’t hold anything against him in this matter, but that Zepile should give up and go home before he gets into trouble with other powerful and less scrupulous flesh collectors. Once he’s agreed to cease his trading activities in Baleno City, our boss will clean up the mess, so that Zepile can leave town in peace. Then, this will all hopefully be forgotten.”

This was good news, and also, not a bad plan. Of course Mizaistom didn’t trust Linsen, who’d lied to him more than once in the short span of their conversation, but he did trust Leorio’s opinion of Kurapika, and knew that when Linsen spoke about his boss helping Zepile and looking after him, he meant it.

“There’s one problem,” said Mizaistom. His arms, though still crossed, relaxed. “Accept this as some free information, since you’re so graciously looking after my client for me after having the nerve to separate us.”

“What is it?” asked Linsen, though he didn’t seem to believe Mizaistom was truly about to tell him anything useful.

“Zepile’s lead isn’t bogus.”

Linsen’s jaw clenched. Such a complication was exactly the thing he, and possibly Kurapika himself, had dreaded most. While they could contend with Leorio being a busybody and foolishly endangering a friend for selfish reasons, they couldn’t afford to lose a legitimate lead on Scarlet Eyes.

“Tell your boss to take some time and consider the possibility that he will most likely end up forced to collaborate with others in the near future. At this point, it’s the only way he can hope to obtain the eyes.”

“Leorio actually knows?” asked Linsen quietly, unwilling to believe it but trusting that Mizaistom wouldn’t lie. “He, by himself, miraculously, managed to locate the last of the Scarlet Eyes that no-one else in the entire underground, throughout the entire world, has been able to track for years?” Linsen started to laugh in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?”

“Are you surprised?” asked Mizaistom, arching a brow. “Leorio has friends in high places now, and your boss, Kurapika, was never going to find everything he sought by only searching the criminal underworld. You’re hunting a true monster with real power here, not a mere criminal mastermind or mafia prince. Even if Kurapika knew the owner’s identity right now, if he entered this room and I told him exactly who he’s looking for, he’d never get near that person working alone as he has been.”

“You also know who it is?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Because I know everything,” said Mizaistom matter-of-factly. He never broke eye contact. “More than Zepile. More than Leorio. More than Kurapika. And more than you. So, please, don’t make any more attempts to lie to me about what’s going on. I know what Kurapika really wants, I know why he wants it, and I have a good idea what he’ll do to get it. He’s been acquiring his clan’s eyes for over a year by now, but he’s reached a dead end. Working with Zepile is the only way left to achieve his goal.”

Linsen slumped in his seat, still sullen, but too smart to argue with a Zodiac member who, though overbearing, wasn’t a liar. “What do we dom then?” he asked. “What can Kurapika do?”

“He can cooperate,” said Mizaistom. “It’s all he has left.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Zepile considered his options. It didn’t take long.

Only two doors led out of the smoking room, both opening up into the same hall, though the one to left was closer to the elevator. If anyone were lying in wait for him, the left would be the obvious choice. The right wasn’t too far away, though, so sneaking out through it wouldn’t be possible.

Zepile was trapped. His only choices were to wait around, or face the potential threat head-on. He decided he should try his luck by running. Only if he kept moving, would he maybe have a chance. It was better than being a sitting duck, and who knew? Maybe running for his life would cause some dormant Nen ability to kick in to save him? Nen sometimes worked like that, right? Maybe that was how animals learned it in the wild.

With the utmost care, Zepile rose from his seat, cursing internally at every creak of leather and polished wood, no matter how miniscule and soft. Creeping on his tip-toes, he moved away from the sitting area and crossed the room to the nearest door, the right one. He held his breath and rotated the knob by silent millimeters, hoping there wasn’t some stranger on the other side anticipating the muted click of the latch as it turned and ready to throw the door open in his face and launch themselves at him.

The coast, as far as Zepile could make out through the narrow crack in the door, was clear, though he couldn’t see anything in the direction of the elevator. He opened the door a little farther and began to step through sideways. His long jacket sleeve caught on the handle as he squeezed past, forcing him to pause and choke back an explicative as it rattled the knob. He tugged the sleeve free just as a pair of hands grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him the rest of the way through the doorway. He was out in the blindingly bright hall in a flash, where a small group of strangers was waiting, just as he’d feared. 

Before Zepile could even think to turn and run, the person who’d pulled him through the door hit him in the back. He understood he was falling face-first, unable to stop himself. He barely caught himself before he reached the floor. Someone else kicked his arm, knocking him off his balance and all the rest of way down into floor. He lay there without moving, without speaking, without doing anything, following what was realistically his more natural instinct to shut up, hold still, and wait for the attack to end.

He hoped that in the meantime, Mizaistom would arrive. He didn’t care how pathetic he looked, laid out by his attackers in less than two seconds and dragged away for questioning. He just didn’t want to die.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It wasn’t fair, a Two-star Hunter and member of the Zodiacs handpicked by Netero himself facing off against a mafia lackey with a Hunter License. Appropriately, Linsen became afraid. The more agitated Mizaistom grew, the more Linsen realized involving him, getting between him and his principle, all to accomplish little more than pestering him with questions and demands, had been a mistake. If Mizaistom chose to retaliate, Linsen wouldn’t have stood a chance.

“Just tell me, then,” asked Linsen, because he knew it’d be impossible to force the information from Mizaistom, so he might as well beg for charity. “Tell me who it is. We won’t have to bother with Zepile or his source. Kurapika will handle it all on his own. He always does. Don’t underestimate him. You’d be surprised what the kid is capable of. You can tell me who it is, and I’ll pass the information on, and then, all of this will be over.”

“The information isn’t for you. What I know is classified to members of the Zodiacs,” said Mizaistom. It was true, sort of. It was just that none of the other Zodiacs knew the information existed except Cheadle, and perhaps Botobai in parts. “I can’t stop you from finding it out by some other means, such as convincing Kurapika to meet with Zepile’s contact. To be frank, my only job here is to protect Zepile, as I’ve been formally contracted to do by Fiammata Bagliore for the remainder of the time he’ll be working here in Baleno City.”

“Of course,” muttered Linsen bitterly to himself, shaking his head. “Out of every Hunter-operated security company in the entire world, Fiammata had to go and hire Mizaistom Nana, the most inflexible, sanctimonious, and outright uncooperative Hunter in the entire Association.” He sighed and looked Mizaistom over, disappointed. “I knew it would be like talking to a wall with you. There isn’t an ounce of compassion or empathy inside of you, is there? Are you sure you know what Kurapika wants?”

“I do know what he wants,” admitted Mizaistom, nodding. “I know he isn’t actually looking for the person acquiring all the eyes like you tried to tell me he was. He already knows better than anyone who that particular person is. What he wants to find out is the identity of the owner of the final pairs he hasn’t been able to track down yet.”

“If you know all about him, then don’t you want to help him? Aren’t Crime Hunters all about seeking justice?”

“I do want to help him.”

“Then tell me who it is who has the eyes.”

“That won’t help him.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to Leorio.”

“And yet, Leorio’s the one who’s going to end up helping Kurapika the most in his mission to acquire the last of his clan’s eyes,” said Mizaistom. “It really shouldn’t be surprising, though. You know what Leorio’s like, what he’s capable of. You were there. You witnessed along with the rest of us how he nearly became chairman just for the chance to help save his sick friend’s life.”

“Kurapika still won’t meet with Leorio.”

“He’s welcome to meet with me if he wishes. I might be inclined to help more if he cares enough to come to me directly.”

“Forget it,” said Linsen. “I’m not even going to tell him you know.”

Mizaistom stiffened and stared at Linsen, who kept on staring at the desk, his expression sour. 

“What?” asked Mizaistom darkly.

“If he wanted anyone from the Hunter Association to help, he’d have contacted you guys himself, but he didn’t. He wants to do all of this on his own. Telling him about you would be pointless, because he’s not going to ask you for your help anyway.”

“But at this point, he may just be that desperate.”

“If he’s that desperate, he’ll agree to meet Zepile’s source. No point complicating matters with an stuffy Zodiac who ‘might’ be inclined to help.”

Mizaistom calmed down and nodded. “Whichever works,” he said.

Linsen pushed his chair back, grumbling something indistinct under his breath in another language as he stood. Mizaistom stood as well, and Linsen went to call over the displaced staff members to give them the room back.

The party in the main ballroom was dying down with the late hour. Mizaistom scanned the area with his eyes and his En to locate Zepile, but Zepile hadn’t returned. A quick search of the terrace outside also proved fruitless. Gritting his teeth, he went to find Linsen, who’d just finished a quick, sternly worded phone call in a quiet corner near the fireplace.

“Don’t blame me,” said Linsen defensively when he caught the look in Mizaistom’s eye as he stormed over. “Everything’s fine. Zepile should be home already. My subordinate called and said he’s just finished escorting him. He’ll wait until you arrive before he leaves.”

“Your people removed my client from the building?” asked Mizaistom, unimpressed with what seemed to be a rather chaotic command structure within the Nostrade organization. “They escorted him elsewhere without notifying you first?”

“Zepile wanted to leave. He wasn’t exactly in the mood to rejoin the party.”

“What’s do you mean?”

It was impossible for Linsen to answer Mizaistom outright after catching a hint of his turbulent aura. He cringed and turned away, pinching the bridge of his nose as he swore under his breath about someone named Basho. Without opening his tightly shut eyes, he said, “There was, shall I say, an incident.”


	26. Afterwards

No amount of money or time invested into the line of his eyebrows could distract from the state Zepile’s face was currently in. Half of his forehead had swelled into a nasty bump where he’d hit the floor, while the same side of his face was bruised from meeting the edge of someone’s shoe after he’d thoughtlessly tried to pull himself up to look around. Other bruises, hidden under his loose nightshirt, spread all across his back and sides, the handiwork of two more assailants joining in on the scuffle without wasting time to assess whether or not their involvement was truly necessary. These two extraneous pairs of feet and hands had taken it upon themselves to strike at Zepile as a deterrent whenever they imagined he’d moved, which turned out to be many more times than he ever actually did, though Zepile hadn’t been in a position to correct them whenever they'd got it wrong.

Three goons had been overkill from the start when it came to bringing Zepile down. He was bad at fighting, dismally so, and knew it was rarely in his best interests to make a big, flashy stand. Attackers wearing suits in fancy buildings downtown usually wanted something from him other than his life, and the sooner he cooperated with them, the sooner the violence would hopefully end. 

There were times when this approach didn't work quite as well as Zepile had hoped. It’d started to look like it'd been the wrong choice when the two extra men had joined in and one had over-ambitiously kicked him in the face. It was only by a miracle that the attack had been stopped before Zepile suffered enough damage to put him in the hospital. Mizaistom hadn’t ceased to remind Zepile of this, but Zepile dismissed his concern, claiming he was fine, that he’d had worse beatings in the past at more experienced hands than whoever had wanted to drag him away from the party for some reason.

“I’ve broken my nose getting kicked in the face before, but not this time, so, that’s a plus,” said Zepile, gingerly pressing the side of his face to check for any reduction in the swelling. He might've been hell to look at, but he insisted it was just his appearance that was affected and hadn't stopped trying to make light of the whole situation for the past quarter hour. Mizaistom sat at the end of his bed, arms tightly crossed and fuming only moderately softer than before when he’d stormed into the room and sworn at the sight Zepile's face in the cadence of a curt greeting.

“Do you think getting a concussion was better for you, then?” asked Mizaistom. Zepile couldn’t shrug with his arm in a sling, so he waved his one free hand.

“Wanted to try something new,” he said. Mizaistom tightened his grip around himself and hunched over, physically holding back from an outburst that would make the headache he knew Zepile must be suffering worse.

“How are you still talking like this after getting attacked in a hallway, having your shoulder dislocated, and ruining your entire suit with all the blood from your miraculously somehow unbroken nose?”

“You’re right,” agreed Zepile solemnly. “Ruining my suit is no laughing matter. I regret the suit.”

Mizaistom stood sharply and turned away. He didn’t want to look at Zepile and paced the room in front of the bed instead. Watching him, Zepile sighed and adjusted the ice pack pressed against the bump on his forehead.

“I say dislocating a shoulder is a lot like riding a bike,” he said. “You learn it as a kid, and your body knows how forever. Also, the doctor told me the risk goes up after you’ve dislocated it once already. With that said, guess which shoulder I’ve dislocated before? Twice?”

Mizaistom paused in his pacing only long enough to cast Zepile a withering glance.

“Do you know Basho?” asked Zepile. “I feel like he’s a Hunter, but I never asked. Maybe you met him outside? The big guy with no shirt? He broke up the fight. My hero, I guess. He was embarrassed, because he was supposed to be looking after me, but Neon sent him to buy her a bag of potato chips at a convenience store across the street. He made it back right in time, though. Super cool guy. Chill. Brought me to an underground Nostrade doctor, then offered me what looked like weed, but which he told me wasn't _technically_ , on the way home to help with the pain. Swell dude.”

“I met Basho just now. His reputation precedes him, but we don't know each other. Not all Hunters know each other,” Mizaistom reminded him distractedly. “He’s something of a horticulturalist, I think.”

“I didn’t accept the not-weed, if you’re wondering. I’m an upstanding citizen. Don’t look in my dresser. There’s nothing there.”

Mizaistom didn’t care if the joke was that Zepile was lying or telling the truth. He made no indication of wanting to check anywhere for anything whatsoever. All he did was pace. Zepile sighed.

“You’re not any fun at all right now,” said Zepile. The flippant air in his voice had been replaced with a tired drawl. Mizaistom embraced it as a dose of well-needed honesty. “What are you even mad at me for, anyway?" asked Zepile. "I got the information about Kurapika we needed. You’re lucky I didn’t suffer retrograde amnesia and forget it all. Then, you’d really have a reason to be pissed off.”

Mizaistom stopped pacing and let his arms drop to his sides. “I’m not mad at you,” he said. “I’m mad about what happened.”

“What, this?” asked Zepile, gesturing to himself. “C'mon. I’ve had worse than this. I told you. There was one time I paid off a sketchy loan to an underground bank, and the guy who collected it stole the money. A couple days later, some goons showed up to my place. They threatened me, gave me a week to pay up or they’d take a kidney, and then, a day after that, it got out that their own guy had stolen from them. Didn’t do me any good, though. I was in the hospital for three days terrified I was going to go to sleep at some point and wake up minus one kidney. It turns out they’ll send people after you to collect within a day of you failing to pay up, but they never bother sending anyone around to tell you ‘oops, sorry about that, our bad’ when things go bad.”

Mizaistom glared burning pinpricks into the opposite wall, biting his tongue without speaking, because all he wanted to do was chastise Zepile for being reckless enough to have taken out such a dangerous loan in the first place. 

“Alright, then,” said Zepile with a sigh, seeing he was getting nowhere even after sharing such a long and incriminating story about himself. “Grab a pen and paper and write down the address. I’m supposed to meet Kurapika tomorrow, but you might as well go. What’s the point dragging me along all beat up like this when it’s you he’s going to be talking to? Plus, the doctor told me to rest, take it easy.”

Mizaistom pulled out a notebook and stared down at the empty first page as he approached the bedside, adopting the role of a studious detective rather than a distraught colleague. Zepile recited the address of the Nostrade offices in Lucio, which Mizaistom cross-checked in his notes and confirmed. He tucked the notepad back into his jacket pocket and continued to stand in place, looking around and trying not to listen too closely to Zepile’s shaky breathing.

“I, uh, don’t feel it’s right to leave you on your own,” said Mizaistom as the pause grew longer and more uncomfortable. Zepile had started drifting off asleep as he waited and woke with a snort. “You’re hurt," explained Mizaistom. "If there are any complications, you'll need to go to the hospital. I mean the real hospital. Your visit to the Nostrade's doctor was brief. They didn’t do any scans. You never know what might happen.”

Zepile yawned as softly as he could manage to minimize the pain. "I don't know if you keep up with modern medical science, Mizai, but you’re actually allowed to let a person who may have suffered a concussion sleep,” he said. He opened his eyes a crack. “It’s a myth you have to keep them up all night with your incessant worrying and pacing and grumbling at them for no good reason.”

Mizaistom directed a determined look out the window. His arms, unfailing, rose up to his chest and crossed over it, but he didn't answer.

“You should head to Lucio first thing,” said Zepile. He leaned back into the pile of pillows Basho had helped prop up around him. “There’s only a couple days left until your big Zodiac meeting. If you’re going to speak to Kurapika about joining your club before then, you’ll have to speak to him now.”

“I know. I know that.”

“Then, head out, take a break. Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

Mizaistom shook his head, but Zepile didn’t see it. “No. I’ll stay here,” he insisted. “And anyway, it’s my shift to look after you.”

“Is your shift all night?” asked Zepile, amused at the thought. “How long did you think we’d be out?”

“It’s later than you think it is right now. It was already past midnight when you arrived here with Basho. In two hours, it’ll be dawn.”

Zepile opened his eyes and tried to lean over to check the clock on the bedside table. Mizaistom picked it up and held it where he could see. “Good point,” said Zepile, noting the time. “You’ll get more sleep if you stay put.”

“I won’t need to sleep.”

“You’ll just creepily stare at me as I struggle to sleep knowing you’re watching me?”

“I...can try to sleep a little, maybe.”

“Please try to, or pretend, I don't care which," said Zepile. He nodded his head upwards, lazily indicating the rest of the room. "Make yourself at home.”

Mizaistom set his jacket and tie on the back of a chair with his shoes underneath, then stepped away to the bathroom. It felt intrusive to undress further in a room that wasn’t his. He stood fixed in place in front of the bathroom mirror for several seconds, looking at his dark briefs and pale undershirt and wondering if he might be able to sleep in his suit pants after all. He left his watch and the fake glasses on the bathroom counter and rinsed his face. Then he put the long dress shirt back on, unbuttoned. He emerged a moment later with the pants neatly folded in his arms. Without looking over to see if Zepile was awake, he hurried to set everything on a chair. Just as quickly, he slipped between the sheets of the spare bed.

“You’re not cold without pants on?”

Mizaistom was glad it was too dark for Zepile see his reaction after discovering Zepile had been watching him cross the room. It was neither dignified nor professional.

“I’m just teasing you,” said Zepile as if this wasn’t obvious. “Thanks for sticking around.”

“It’s fine,” said Mizaistom. “I don’t mind it.”

“Of course you don't,” said Zepile, the words almost unintelligible as he fought against another yawn. The room grew quiet. Mizaistom didn’t feel good about how suddenly Zepile had seemingly fallen asleep, though the aura coming off his body remained constant. Mizaistom checked twice to make sure. At long last, Zepile relieved Mizaistom’s worry with a snort, like the start of a snore that'd broken off as Zepile woke up.

“Hey," said Zepile. "Do you want to know something?”

Mizaistom shrugged, realized Zepile couldn’t see him, and then grunted for him to continue.

“Neon Nostrade thinks your beard is ugly.”

Mizaistom stared up at the ceiling, baffled over how this revelation was supposed to affect him.

“She told me to tell you to shave it off.”

Mizaistom furrowed his brow. Above, orange tinged lines ran across the ceiling where city light trickled in through gaps in the hastily drawn curtains. He wanted to close the curtain better, but he didn't want to get up again until Zepile was completely asleep.

“If you ever grow a moustache, I’m supposed to dump you.”

“Hm?” asked Mizaistom, having only been half listening.

“Because it’s gross.”

“Oh.”

Mizaistom heard Zepile chuckle to himself. He imagined the look that must be on Zepile’s face, half smiling, half thoughtful. The sloshing of the partially melted ice pack seemed to drown out all sound as Zepile removed it from the tender bump on his head and tossed it onto the bedside table. It slipped with the momentum of its contents and flopped onto the floor. Zepile grumbled at it, but let it lay. Graciously, Mizaistom turned to reach over and pick it up for him, but Zepile told him to leave it. Mizaistom laid on his back again and stared back up at the ceiling. He felt an itch and rubbed his face briskly, pausing for a moment at the beard on his chin. He considered it as he ran his fingers over the frame the coarse hair made around his jaw.

“I don’t mind it,” said Zepile.

“What?”

“The beard. I think it’s okay. Don’t shave it unless you want to. In fact, you should do more. If you grow it out, it’ll look like old-timey whiskers. A bold look for the second millenium.”

“I’m glad to have your support,” said Mizaistom. He scratched the skin beneath the beard before letting his hand fall back to his side.

“Good luck tomorrow,” said Zepile. “I hope it goes well.”

“It will,” said Mizaistom. “I won’t let Kurapika slip away.”

“Are you going to tell him who has the eyes?”

“If he agrees to join the Zodiacs, then yes.”

Zepile laughed. “About damn time," he said. "I’m dying of suspense here myself." He let out a pretend wistful sigh. “Seeing how we’re basically done with this mission, do you maybe want to give me any hints about who actually has the eyes? It’s killing me not knowing.”

For once, without any extra prodding, Mizaistom offered a rare clue. “They’re in the Kakin Empire."

Zepile gaped at him, not sure how to take this. “Wait, what?” he asked. “Is that real? Did you really just gave me a real hint?”

“Yes. It's real.”

Zepile let out a low, appreciative hum. He tried his luck a little more.

“Would I know who it is?”

“No. You don’t know enough about the Kakin Empire.”

“But, this person is on the trip going to the Dark Continent, right?”

“Yes.”

“Thousands of people are going on that trip.”

“Yes.”

“Relatively speaking, it’ll be easier to pick through thousands of people rather than the entire world. With time, Kurapika could probably figure out who it is on his own.” 

“He hasn’t got time. And, if he doesn’t join the Zodiacs, I’ll personally make sure he’s not on board the ship.”

“He could sneak on board.”

“He won’t have the element of surprise. I’ll be expecting him, and he’ll be detained before he even reaches the port.”

“Wow. That’s kinda harsh. Hasn’t that guy been through enough already?”

Mizaistom clasped his hands loosely over his abdomen, the lying down equivalent of thoughtfully crossing his arms. “The fact of the matter is he’ll never reach his target working alone,” he said. “He’ll get himself killed before he gets anywhere near the individual in question. But, I believe Kurapika already understands that better than anyone. He'll definitely agree to join us. Don’t worry about him not getting his chance.”

Zepile agreed to this with a small murmur, and let the subject go. He shifted around noisily in the bed for a minute to find a more comfortable position, but his options were limited and his disliked all of them. When he was done, Mizaistom spied a quick glance over without moving his head, but he couldn’t see Zepile face.

“Sleeping for real, now,” Zepile informed him. “You, too. Big day tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, then,” said Mizaistom, unhappy with how cold and matter-of-fact his voice sounded. “I’ll come by after I meet Kurapika. I still have a contract to look after you until you leave Baleno City.”

“That’ll be good. I might need help in the shower.”

Mizaistom was on the verge of snapping that he wasn’t a nurse, but the lingering guilt he felt for Zepile’s current state resurfaced and prevented him saying anything harsh to him.

“I’ll send someone to take care of you while I’m in Lucio.”

“It’s okay. I was joking. I'll be fine.”

“I’ll call my office to arrange it first thing.”

“Okay,” said Zepile, sounding a little annoyed but acknowledging that he wasn’t being given much of a real choice in the matter. In his condition, he lacked the energy and the willpower to argue. "Goodnight," he added again, his tone final.

“Goodnight,” Mizaistom repeated, trying to say it nicer this time. Then, to signal that the true end of the conversation had indeed arrived, he turned away to face the window, shut his eyes and waited for Zepile to fall asleep so that he, Mizaistom, could stop pretending to try to do so.


	27. Zodiacs

The printed handouts Cheadle had passed around beforehand were saving Mizaistom’s life right now. It said a lot when Mizaistom was more distracted during a Zodiac meeting than Pyon. Luckily, no-one seemed to have noticed yet. Too much new information was being presented, interspersed by far too much bickering. This allowed Mizaistom to get away with playing the strong and silent type in the corner with his arms crossed, hiding his unusual inability to focus behind a stern facade. 

If it became a problem, Mizaistom could blame the fatigue after the long drive from Baleno City to Swaldani City. It’d been well after dark by the time he and Kurapika had arrived together. Leorio had waited impatiently for them to arrive all day, calling up more than once to both their phones until Mizaistom and Kurapika had simply stopped answering. As expected, Leorio had been pacing the lobby of the Hunter Association headquarters in anxious anticipation. He stopped dead in his tracks and gaped with his mouth fully open at the sight of Kurapika. Kurapika answered him with a bored, uninterested look and a shrug, as if Leorio were being ridiculous, and the time that’d passed since they’d last seen each other in person had been a handful of weeks rather than almost an entire year.

Leorio recovered from his awe-struck daze sooner than Mizaistom would’ve expected and immediately hunched down to begin gossiping under his breath to Kurapika about how tough the upcoming mission sounded. He carried on speaking in this same familiar, conspiratorial tone as the three of them made their way to the meeting room, seemingly oblivious to Mizaistom’s or anyone else’s presence until Cheadle spoke over him and directed him and Kurapika to where the rest of the Zodiacs were waiting.

Mizaistom’s heightened level of distraction, born and nurtured too long in the tedium of the car ride over, had brought him to the precarious edge of catastrophe already. Almost too late, he’d been forced to pull Kurapika aside after Kurapika showed signs he was going to delve too far into the theory that the security of the mission was compromised by the presence of supporters of Beyond Netero within the Hunter Association. He’d been on the verge of accusing the Zodiacs themselves of having been infiltrated before Mizaistom interceded. While Kurapika’s suspicions were natural for a newcomer to have, the open admission of such suspicions would’ve lead to immediate infighting, paranoia, and overall chaos, especially since the accusation had been brought up so suddenly by someone with Kurapika’s cold, clear-spoken authority. Not only would Kurapika have ruined the shaky trust between the Zodiac members, he’d also have hurt his own standing among them simply for having been the first to have voiced what everyone secretly feared.

Mizaistom had picked up a can of tea from a vending machine on the way back from explaining the delicate situation within the Zodaics to Kurapika and stressing that he needed to be more prudent with his questions. Mizaistom had been holding onto the can tightly since the meeting had restarted, and whenever he found his attention starting to wander away, he’d take a few small sips as a subtle transition to bring himself back and focus.

Without warning, Zepile had left Baleno City. He hadn’t officially checked out of his room, so, Mizaistom hadn’t been notified he was leaving until he’d already caught the long-distance train out of the city. Mizaistom hadn’t given orders to stop Zepile from going anywhere, and asking his subordinate to follow Zepile out of the country to wherever he was headed would’ve been both unnecessary and unprofessional. No matter how much of a head start Zepile had on him, Mizaistom could’ve easily found him within hours if he’d chosen to go after him. He hadn’t, though. The manner in which Zepile had gone, with no word or warning, had told Mizaistom that tracking him down would’ve been overstepping. Instead, he’d let Zepile leave in peace and then gone to clear the hotel room of the one thing Zepile left behind: the cow sculpture.

“I didn’t know we were suppose to bring our own food to this,” whined Leorio to Mizaistom after the Zodiac meeting finally let out. He bent over and clutched his stomach after he, Mizaistom, and Kurapika rose from the table together. “I’m really starving. You should’ve told me earlier. I could’ve brought something for you and Kurapika, too.”

“Mizaistom and I ate in the car before we arrived,” said Kurapika. Leorio’s face fell, appalled by the absolute indifference Kurapika expressed towards the suffering of his closest friend. 

“I need to find something to eat or else I’m going to die,” said Leorio. “I guess it’s time for me to wander around the city by myself, starving and tired and disappointed. A typical Saturday night.”

“It’s not Saturday,” said Kurapika. 

“I mean like when I’m heading home after a night out with no girl and having lost all my friends in some bar or another.”

Mizaistom arched a brow. “That’s the typical turn of events?” he asked. 

Leorio paused and stared at Mizaistom, as if genuinely confused why Mizaistom was there, despite the fact that he’d addressed Mizaistom directly only a moment ago. Mizaistom cleared his throat and knocked his papers against the meeting room table to straighten them, symbolically allowing Leorio and Kurapika a bit of relative privacy. He sighed over chaotic the state of the table and set his papers down so he could brush a pile of his fellow Zodiacs’ crumbs away with his sleeve. No-one was listening to him, but he muttered something about not treating the custodial staff like servants under his breath. Rolling his eyes, he bent down to collect a few stray chips from under a chair.

“Oh, sorry, are you unable to leave the room until everyone clears out?” asked Leorio a few minutes later after noticing the table was nearly spotless. He assumed Mizaistom must be politely killing time and growing impatient with them. With a grimace of embarrassment, he turned back to Kurapika and redoubled his efforts to persuade Kurapika to accompany him to get something to eat and catch up.

“I’m supposed to show Kurapika where he’s staying,” said Mizaistom, proving that yes, he was indeed waiting on them, but not to close the room. “He said he’s not in Swaldani City often and he asked me to help out.”

“Oh!” said Leorio as he rounded on Kurapika. “In that case, let me show you around. I stayed a little while here during the elections. I know my way around, everything from here to the hospital.”

Mizaistom looked at Kurapika. Kurapika shrugged back at him and motioned towards Leorio like he was impossible. On the car ride over, Mizaistom had never once outlined Leorio’s specific role in the mission to hunt Kurapika down. All he’d admitted was that Leorio had suggested Kurapika for the Zodiacs. Once Kurapika had connected the dots himself between Mizaistom and Zepile, he hadn’t had many more questions. The exact details didn’t matter to him. All he cared for, as Mizaistom had predicted, was a way to get his hands on the remaining Scarlet Eyes. 

“I can suggest a few places that are open late nearby,” offered Mizaistom. He wanted to help Leorio, even if Leorio kept forgetting he was there. In a strange way, he felt he somehow owed it to Leorio. “We’ll all be busy for the next few months, and Kurapika, you’re leaving town tomorrow. This might be the two of you’s best opportunity to catch up.”

This gave Leorio some much-needed ammunition to convince Kurapika to join him for dinner. Hands buried in his pockets and acting mildly put-upon, Kurapika played the same role he’d assumed while calling Leorio at the beginning of the trip to Swaldani City. It didn’t match at all with the look in his eyes when Mizaistom had spoken to him about Leorio in the elections and what had happened to their friend Gon. Mizaistom knew enough to tell which of the two reactions had been more authentic. Kurapika was nineteen, alone in the world, and he missed his friends. There was zero chance Mizaistom was going to let him blow off Leorio within hours of meeting him because his pride and arrogance dictated his actions more than his heart.

It was late and Mizaistom lived nearby, so, he didn't loiter after parting ways with Kurapika and Leorio outside the Hunter Association headquarters. Only Leorio waved back when Mizaistom wished them a good evening. Kurapika’s hands remained buried deep in his pockets. All he did was nod before turning away.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Mizaistom met Leorio again a few days later while stopping by the lab where Cheadle worked. He was there to inform the chairman in person that they’d received the Black Whale passenger lists sooner than expected and needed her to authorize Kurapika as a member of the Intelligence Team so he could access them remotely if need be. The matter had grown urgent enough for Mizaistom to head over to Cheadle’s workplace the same afternoon, mostly because if he didn’t, Pyon was going to take matters into her own hands and hack the Hunter Association network herself to save time.

“But don’t you trust Pyon to do this herself?” asked Cheadle, a little confused when Mizaistom appeared in front of her asking her to approve the status change. “Didn’t she help encrypt a lot of our top secret data in the first place?”

“She did, and I trust her, but it’s the principle,” said Mizaistom with a sigh. “She shouldn’t just hack the system every time you’re not instantly available to approve something. Think of what that unfettered and unquestioned level of access could result in given the right circumstances.”

“And by that,” said Cheadle, “you mean that if Botobai hears about it, he’ll have a fit.”

“He’ll be furious,” admitted Mizaistom. Imploringly, he stressed, “But also, again, she really shouldn’t.”

It was on his way out of the lab that Mizaistom caught sight of Leorio, who was leaving for his lunch break. Leorio invited Mizaistom to join him, and Mizaistom, despite having a lunch to eat back in his office, accepted. 

As two of them walked, Leorio explained how he was training with Cheadle now, almost a year from the expedition date, because once the ship set sail, they’d all be working for real. He needed a strong foundation in order to maximize his returns from all the practical experience he’d get working in the medical bay with Cheadle and her team.

“Anyway, I heard you mention Kurapika to Cheadle just now in her office. You’re both on the Intelligence Team, right? How’s he been doing so far?”

Mizaistom didn’t ask if Leorio had been eavesdropping. It’d been obvious Leorio had been taking every opportunity to pass by Cheadle’s office while Mizaistom had been speaking with her.

“He’s working hard,” said Mizaistom. He suspected rightly that Kurapika hadn’t been communicating with Leorio much outside the minimum necessary for work. “He wants this mission to be a success.”

Leorio was disappointed with the reply, but tried not to show it. “Good,” he said. They stepped into a cafe and got in line at the counter. “That’s great. He must be busy.”

“Yes. On top of preparing for this mission, he still has his formerly criminal organization to run. He is indeed busy,” said Mizaistom. Leorio nodded along as he read the menu above the counter. “To be honest, though,” added Mizaistom, trying not to disappoint Leorio entirely, “he’s been immensely useful to us. We’re thinking about letting him be an examiner in the Hunter Exam. Recommending him was a good choice. He’s well cut out for intelligence work.”

“That makes sense. Good to know things are working out.”

Mizaistom couldn’t give Leorio more detailed information about the Intelligence Team’s work. It wasn’t Leorio’s area, and anyway, they were in public. However, he wanted to tell him something about Kurapika, something that might reassure him more than vague assessments of how busy Kurapika must be, which he already knew. Zepile had told Mizaistom enough about Leorio’s anxiety surrounding the well-being of his closest friends. The near-death of Gon had only made him worse, though he’d been trying hard to conceal it since the elections. 

“I saw him in person last week,” said Mizaistom more gently. He didn’t miss Leorio’s subtle leaning in. “He’s looking better than when we first met, not so exhausted. Somewhat more relaxed. He’s probably relieved to have the last of what he’s been searching for all this time finally in his sights.”

“He probably is,” agreed Leorio with a small smile and nod. “It’ll work out for him in the end, I’m sure. He’s strong. He’s smart. And there’s people like me who have his back just in case.”

“He’s had good things to say about you, too,” said Mizaistom. He was surprised when Leorio didn’t become even the least bit flustered at the news. 

“Of course he does,” said Leorio like it was the most natural thing in the word. “We’re friends. That jerk better not talk shit behind my back.”

Leorio took his turn at the register and ordered his lunch. Mizaistom followed suit. As they waited for their meals, they struck up a polite conversation about minor things, like the recent weather in Swaldani City and how it compared with Leorio’s home at the same time of year. Nothing important was said for a long time. Mizaistom had an ulterior motive for accepting Leorio’s offer to go to lunch together, but he hadn’t found a way to bring it up yet, especially after Leorio had been more interested in hearing about Kurapika. On that topic, Mizaistom had already given Leorio everything he possibly could. Now, perhaps, it was Mizaistom’s turn to mine for information about his own missing person, Zepile.

“I’m…this might not be my business,” began Mizaistom, already getting off to a terrible start after they’d sat down and Leorio tore open condiment packets for his fries with his teeth, “but...Zepile left Baleno City abruptly when I went to meet with Kurapika, and I haven’t heard from him since. He was in bad shape at the time, so, I was wondering if maybe you knew anything about how he’s been holding up?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” said Leorio, scoffing at the suggestion in Mizaistom’s tone that Leorio might not know exactly what had happened to Zepile. “He called me for medical advice when he was afraid he’d almost re-dislocated the shoulder a fourth time by taking it out of the sling too early. That guy needs to meet with a doctor and get his shoulder checked out for real. It’s only going to get worse at the rate he’s going.”

“He mentioned it was a recurring injury.”

“It is,” said Leorio. He shook his head in stern disapproval mingled with a quiet, professional indignation. “And, so,” he added as he finished squeezing out his final packet of sauce into a puddle on the side of his sandwich wrapper, “do you care to tell me how such an injury ‘reoccurred’ this time?”

Mizaistom didn’t really care to tell him at all. “Zepile didn’t say anything?”

“He said a few things, mostly did some hand waving. Tried to gloss over it. How much he didn’t tell me told me that he’d got into enough trouble to keep it a secret.” 

Mizaistom was silent and still, thinking. Leorio, meanwhile, reached down for his sandwich, but then reconsidered and began rolling up his long sleeves first. 

“I suspected the trouble he’d been in might’ve had something to do with his job for you,” said Leorio as he unbuttoned a cuff. “I was going to ask you about it to confirm my suspicions, but you’ve literally just now told me he was in bad shape when he left Baleno City. Would you care to explain to me what exactly the hell happened? I don’t appreciate being left in the dark when a good friend of mine has suffered something of a medical emergency, even if the friend put me in the dark himself.”

Mizaistom sighed. “He got knocked down by someone. If he didn’t elaborate for you, then I certainly won’t.”

“Must’ve been a significant fall judging by the sound of his voice. Sounded like it hurt to move more than just a dislocated shoulder would entail. Sounded like it hurt to breathe.”

“There was more than the shoulder. Nothing traumatic.”

“Did he get mixed up in something bad? Is he okay?”

“He isn’t in any danger now. His work with me is over. Minus the dislocated shoulder, everything should’ve gone right back to normal on his end.” 

“So, he wasn’t on the run or anything?”

“He shouldn’t have been on the run. Legally speaking, he’s completely safe. I took care of it. He knows that.”

“Wait. Was he in legal trouble?”

“He committed a crime.”

Leorio surprised Mizaistom by laughing. Annoyed, Mizaistom wondered how much Zepile had told Leorio about his frustrations working with Mizaistom. 

“Oh, so you finally had him break the law in the end? Really?”

“I didn’t have him do it,” said Mizaistom with a huff. “I never told him to. He just did it himself.”

“And then you let him get away with it.”

“It was for the good of the mission.”

“Huh,” said Leorio. “Really?” He was grinning now, mildly impressed with the turn of events. “And here I thought you…well, nevermind. Zepile never updated me on the fact that you’d chilled out considerably. Last time I heard anything about you at length, he was telling me you didn’t know a thing about how antiques dealing or the black market worked, and you were going to miss your deadline if you didn’t let him break a few laws to hurry things along.”

“He went on about that at length?” asked Mizaistom, unamused. He could imagine too easily the scenario of Zepile sitting around his hotel room, smoking and complaining endlessly into the phone about him to Leorio. 

“More or less, I guess. I got the feeling he was psyching himself up for something, though, making you sound worse so he wouldn’t feel so bad. That’s why I told you to keep an eye on him. Remember?”

“Yes. I remember.”

“Well, then it’s nice you didn’t arrest him.”

Mizaistom agreed with a nod. He took the chance to start on his lunch so that Leorio wouldn’t run out of time to eat before his break was over. For a while, they ate in relative silence, Mizaistom going much slower than Leorio, who seemed to have been starving for days up until this moment. Once Leorio had finished his sandwich and moved on to lazily picking off his fries, Mizaistom started up with more questions.

“When exactly did you last hear from Zepile?”

Leorio shrugged. “Like a week ago or something. It wasn’t much. We were just catching up, mostly talking about how I’ve been liking Swaldani City so far, since I’ve basically moved here. I’ll be living here and working with Cheadle and her team until we leave for Kakin.”

“Did he sound all right to you?”

“Of course he did. If he didn’t, I’d have stormed into your office and given you a taste of the punch that nearly won me a chairmanship.”

“And where is he?” 

Leorio’s face broke into a milder iteration of the same mildly impressed expression he had before. The question concerning Zepile’s whereabouts had come out too fast, was too obvious. Mizaistom should’ve fired another threat in answer to Leorio’s insubordinate remark about punching him in the face, but instead he’d come back to Zepile, hardly registering what Leorio had said at all.

“I don’t know,” said Leorio. He could tell for certain now that Mizaistom’s concern for Zepile’s well-being was more than cursory. He let it show that he sorry he couldn’t offer Mizaistom a better answer. “Zepile didn’t mention it. I didn’t ask him about it. All my friends seem to just up and disappear so much that I guess I don’t think to ask where anyone is anymore.”

“Is he working, at least?”

“I guess. He would’ve complained about money if he’d been having trouble with work.”

“Good.”

Diligently, Leorio ate his fries, but he kept casting curious glances at Mizaistom across the table waiting to hear more of what, if anything, Mizaistom might say next, but not wanting to push his luck. He observed that Mizaistom hadn’t made nearly much progress through his meal. He stirred his soup more than he ate it, and his fried fish was only half consumed and sat neglected.

“Can’t you…?” Leorio began, but stopped. “I mean, aren’t you…?”

“What?”

“Can’t you just track him down yourself? Like, why ask me? Even if Zepile were in a bad state, it’s not something he’d tell me of all people, especially if it’s to do with something I got him mixed up in. You’ll get better answers if you find him on your own.”

Mizaistom took a deep breath and set down his spoon. “I don’t think it’s very respectful,” he said. “I don’t think it’s fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“Hunting someone down for personal reasons when they don’t contact you. It’s childish. It’s not fair, and it doesn’t respect the other person’s wishes.”

“But the kind of stuff you’re asking me, you could find out without even confronting him. You could send someone, easy.”

“No. I don’t have time to hunt someone down, and I don’t have a good reason to send anyone. I’m only asking you about him now because you and I ran into each other today, and it’s a topic of mutual interest.”

Leorio didn’t looked like he believed this, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to get Mizaistom to admit otherwise.

“I can always call him for you,” suggested Leorio, “Ask how things are going in better detail, now that I know you’re interested in what he’s up to.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“It’s not a big deal. I feel kinda selfish now that you’ve sort of called me out for not knowing myself, honestly.”

“It’s fine. Really.”

“It’s no problem. I’ll let you know. Okay?”

Mizaistom might not have agreed, but he didn’t want to stop Leorio, not really. He picked up his spoon and went back to stirring his soup. With a sigh, Leorio checked the time on his phone. He gasp and then hurried through the remainder of his fries, explaining as he gathered up his suitcase that he had to hurry back to help with an experiment one of Cheadle’s team members was running that afternoon. Mizaistom told him to leave his wrappers and things on the table, that he’d take care of it. Leorio thanked him, and he wished Leorio a good day. 

Once Leorio was long gone, Mizaistom collected the leftover trash from the table along with his own hardly touched meal and threw it all away. He set out for his office at the Hunter Association Headquarters to review the passenger list with Pyon, hoping she hadn’t hacked the security system in the meantime. He tugged on his earring thoughtfully as he walked down the street, but nothing specific came to mind.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“I can’t believe you forced me, a colleague and fellow Zodiac, to make an actual appointment to see you,” whined Leorio the second he’d passed through the door into Mizaistom’s office. “That’s rude. We could’ve just got lunch again like friends. You can’t be so busy you can’t afford even a half hour to get lunch anymore.”

Mizaistom politely invited Leorio to take a seat at the chair in front of his desk. Arms crossed sourly, Leorio sat down, hard. He glared at Mizaistom over his tiny dark glasses. The suit that normally completed his look was gone, replaced with a lab coat that served to better emphasize the fact that Leorio had been forced to schedule time out of his own working day just to update Mizaistom on Zepile as he’d promised him he would. 

“In the time between when I called him and the week and a half you made me wait until you had an opening in your schedule, I called him again,” said Leorio. “At this point, I’m pretty much an expert on all things you can find out about Zepile in a casual conversation.”

“I told you it was unnecessary,” Mizaistom reminded him. He gave the document opened on his monitor one last glance over before minimizing it and turning to offer Leorio his undivided attention. “I don’t want to pry into his personal business.”

“You aren’t. I asked him if I could tell you what he’s up to, and he said it was cool.”

Mizaistom took a deep breath and held it as he looked down at his desk and clasped hands resting on top of it. “You told him I was the one asking?”

“No. I’m not that cruel or stupid. I told him I saw you around sometimes and asked him if you guys were in touch at all. He said no, but he asked what you were doing, how you were. He didn’t seem mad at you or anything. Actually, he told me to apologize on his behalf. He had a lead on an estate sale he was hoping to make it to if your mission wrapped up in time, something about ceramics, and he decided to try and catch it at the last minute. His arm was too messed up to carry all of his luggage, though. He asked me if you had someone pick up the stuff he left behind in the hotel room.”

“I have it,” said Mizaistom, glancing to a small side table in the corner of the office where the cow sculpture resided. Leorio didn’t notice, since there was a window in the same direction.

“Great. I’ll let him know. He wasn’t sure the note he left with your office would reach you in time, so he didn’t check out before leaving. He was worried the hotel would turn around the room and throw everything out before you had time to stop by.”

Mizaistom kept nodding. “I know,” he said. “I was notified by phone after I’d already collected everything myself. He didn’t mention the estate sale to my office, however.”

“He apologized for that. It slipped his mind, he said. I totally understand now why you might’ve thought he was mad at you or something. Sounds like he just disappeared and left his stuff behind.”

“Yes.”

“That’s surprisingly careless of him, but then again, he probably wasn’t thinking straight after getting the shit beaten out of him at a party.”

Mizaistom winced. “Ah. So, he told you, then?”

“He finally did, now that he’s mostly recovered and I can’t do anything about it. He wanted me to remind you that it wasn’t your fault, too. I’m not sure I personally agree with him there, but that’s what he wants me to say. So, there you go. Zepile says it’s not your fault.”

“Thank you,” said Mizaistom. He didn’t have much else to say, since he didn’t want to risk asking a single question of his own about Zepile. It was embarrassing enough that Leorio had come all this way even after Mizaistom had tried to dissuade him.  

“Oh, and he’s in York Shin, working,” said Leorio. “He changed his work phone so that people from Baleno City wouldn’t bug him, but his personal number is the same. He thought you had it, but if you don’t, I can give it to you.”

Begrudgingly, Mizaistom accepted, though he hated the feeling of obligation it gave him to now call Zepile. He handed Leorio a pad of paper and pen to jot the number down, and Leorio pulled out his phone from his pocket. He copied the number down messily and handed it over with the pen. Mizaistom glanced down once without seeing what was written before tossing everything into a desk drawer.

“During our most recent call,” said Leorio, “he mentioned something about the Hunter Exam. Told me to tell Senritsu that she and I were off the hook.”

“That’s not surprising. He didn’t truly want to take the exam in the first place.”

“No. That’s not the case. He said he might actually do it. Maybe in a few years. He didn’t have a timeline or anything planned out, though, so he didn’t want to keep us waiting. I told him it was fine to start whenever after I’m back from this mission. He can’t even take the exam this year anyway, since we’re just recruiting people.”

“He’s probably stalling for time. You offered training as payment, so it’s hard to turn down directly. He’ll come up with a better excuse while you’re gone, I’m sure. He’ll never actually train.”

“I don’t know. I think he sounded pretty sincere.” Leorio scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Working with you might’ve changed his mind. He definitely sounded more serious than when he suggested I train him before at any rate.”

“I doubt he’s changed his mind. He’s too uncomfortable with Nen. He’ll never learn it.”

“He said we won’t have to bother teaching him Nen to train for the exam.”

“It’s true that Nen ability isn’t technically required for the exam. He doesn’t need to know it yet.”

“It’s not because of that. He said you were going to teach him Nen.”

Mizaistom started, and a small grin erupted from the side of Leorio’s mouth.

“I was also surprised to hear that,” said Leorio, as if he were agreeing with Mizaistom’s stunned expression. “Why didn’t you tell me before? No wonder you were worried about him. You guys are friends now, right? That’s so weird. But also, I’m glad. I mean, Zepile’s a good guy, gets along with everyone, but _you_? I’m actually impressed. You both got off to a rough start, but even you’re impervious to Zepile eventually. That guy has a gift with people. He’s in the right line of work.”

“He is,” muttered Mizaistom.

“Well,” said Leorio, leaning to the side in his chair, relaxed now that he’d got back at Mizaistom for making him schedule the entire ridiculous appointment. “Zepile didn’t really ask too much after you, like what you’re doing, since he’s already heard about the Kakin Empire on the news and knows the Hunter Association is traveling with them to settle the Dark Continent. He can guess what you’re up to, since he’s sure you won’t tell him any more than what the media does. Actually, he saw Cheadle on TV the other day. He asked if I’m going to start dressing up like a boar, maybe implant some tusks and get a mohawk. I told him he can dream.”

Leorio laughed a the memory and stood. He took a moment to brush off his pants and straightened his lab coat. When he was done, he looked down on Mizaistom from his full height. “Well, then. I should get going. Honestly, I thought you’d act a little more interested in news about Zepile. You seemed concerned before. It’s too late now to recant and pretend you’re indifferent.” 

Mizaistom moved his head back only enough to see Leorio's face around the short brim of his hat. Leorio glanced at the door and leaned forward, adding in a lowered voice, “You know, the more you try to act like you don’t care or that something annoys you, the more obvious it is that you do, in fact, care, right?”

“You’d know,” said Mizaistom. Leorio agreed with a complicit smile.

“What are you worried about with Zepile?” he asked. “He told me to tell you not to feel guilty about him getting beat up when you were supposed to be protecting him. He meant it. He doesn’t blame you.”

“That’s not it.”

“Did you already know the estate sale story was a lie, then?” 

“Yes. I did. I could tell you were lying as you said it.”

“Damn. Okay. The truth is he left suddenly because he didn’t want the people hiring you to find out he’d been hurt. It would’ve looked bad.”

Mizaistom grunted and sat back in his chair. He crossed his hands over his lap, nodding thoughtfully. “That sounds more like it,” he agreed. “His job is all about reputation, too. He knows what that’s worth.”

“Considering you let him off the hook for breaking the law, it’s the least he could do to repay you, right?”

“Perhaps.”

Leorio gathered his suitcase from the ground beside his chair and said goodbye to Mizaistom. The full half hour set aside for the meeting hadn’t been completed, but that just meant there was less time for Leorio to waste sitting around when he had research to do and a course to study. He left early, and Mizaistom spent the remaining quarter hour sitting in the same position he’d been in when Leorio had gone. He tried think, but he couldn’t focus very long on on any particular thought. His mind was relatively blank, awash with a strange sense of relief and yet, beneath it a gnawing, shapeless worry. 

Mizaistom looked at the drawer he’d tossed the pad of paper and pen into with so much false carelessness earlier. He considered the obligation he was under to use the phone number he’d already had now that it’d been handed back to him officially. 

He could easily put it off for another week. Perhaps even two weeks. A full month might be too much, though. Not even Mizaistom, who was working together on more assignments with more Zodiacs than anyone else in the entire team, was busy enough to not get back to someone for over a month. Not unless that person was someone who simply wasn’t worth getting back to.

Mizaistom sighed, lifting a hand to rest his chin. His mind was no longer blank as his eyes stayed fixed on the drawer. 


	28. The End

The first thing Mizaistom noticed about Zepile was that he was wearing sandals. It took several seconds to recover from the shock and stop staring. He didn’t think bare feet were sanitary in the city, no matter the time of year, and couldn’t imagine the hassle it would’ve been for him, personally, to walk around with his toes exposed to the elements and urban grime.

Zepile hadn’t missed Mizaistom’s inability to keep from staring. He laughed at him and told him that it was a marvel Mizaistom could handle working in the Zodiacs, considering how one of the members was always featured on TV wearing a showgirl costume. After a pause, he conceded that she did wear tall boots, and though he’d never checked, they probably covered her feet. 

“It isn’t even summer yet,” said Mizaistom. “Also, I believe Cluck uses her mastery of Ten to protect herself from weather and debris, so, she can wear whatever she wishes. You, however, haven’t mastered Ten.”

“I’m fine,” said Zepile, not about to ask what exactly Ten was. “Where I’m from, sandals are standard footwear once it gets warm out. You’d pass out after five minutes wearing your cow suit in my hometown.”

Zepile spoke too loudly on purpose, and Mizaistom glanced over to a group of passerby to see if any of them had overheard. None paused or looked over, for which Mizaistom was relieved.

“A cow suit and a cow-patterned suit are two very distinct things,” said Mizaistom, chiding Zepile lightly as he adjusted his tie. He nodded for Zepile to follow him down the street. “Neither of which, as you can see, I’m wearing. I wear suits and ties to court. It’s the dress code.”

Zepile grinned and adjusted the satchel slipping off his shoulder. The pause served as a thin excuse to slow down to better see Mizaistom’s full outfit, since Zepile had been facing away when Mizaistom joined him near the mouth of the metro exit. All he’d had time to register was the cow-patterned tie and belt. These turned out to be the only elements that hearkened to the typical bovine aesthetic Zepile and most of the world knew Mizaistom for.

“I didn’t know you still did court stuff,” said Zepile. “I thought you were more into security and arresting criminals.”

“That’s correct,” said Mizaistom. He slowed down for Zepile to catch up. “You might’ve heard about the Black Whale’s Kakin-based security team, how they canceled over one hundred tickets suspected to have been bought using false credentials.”

“Sort of, yeah. I think.”

“Well, it was the Hunter Association Intelligence Team that uncovered those aberrant cases during background checks. We reported them to the Kakin government, and the Kakin Security Department ordered the Black Whale security team to cancel all of the suspect tickets without any notice provided to the ticket holders or any attempt at further investigation.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember it, now,” said Zepile. “Of course I do, I heard about it in the news.” He scoffed at himself, embarrassed for having forgot, and looked away. “The news is all about the Dark Continent expedition nowadays. There’s always some crisis or another coming up. Lots of debates about the merits of the trip. Honestly, everything all just sort of blurs together at this point.” 

“It is a historical event,” said Mizaistom. “Such excessive media coverage is natural.”

“On the news they’re starting to call it a blacklist outright, like some political conspiracy,” said Zepile. Now that he’d remembered the story, the details flooded back. “Kakin says the Hunters explicitly told them to kick everyone they’d flagged off the boat immediately.”

“That is indeed Kakin’s position in all this,” said Mizaistom, alarming Zepile with his clipped tone, as though he were half-spitting the words out through gritted teeth. Zepile tried to defuse tension, but he couldn’t think of anything clever to say. Mizaistom had been looking gloomy since the moment Zepile had laid eyes on him, and it hadn’t only been because of the dreary black suit he was still wearing after a long day in court.

“Okay, so, the news is bullshit, we all know that,” said Zepile. “Shitting on the Hunter Association is the order of the day, every day, all over the world. You’re all a fairly easy target. So, give me your spin on things.” Mizaistom grunted, annoyed. “Okay, sorry. I mean, tell me what _really_ happened.”

Mizaistom didn’t know where to begin, despite having gone over the exact same topic at length for days. He put his arm through the wide handle of his legal bag, burying both his hands in his pockets to think better. As he and Zepile cut through a small, slow-moving crowd at a stoplight, he drew closer to better speak over the increase in voices. 

“They kicked everyone off with no explanation, and they got sued,” said Mizaistom much too simply. “Then, they said we told them to do it.”

“Yeah, but I mean, do you think maybe someone at the Hunter Association really told them to do that?”

“No,” snapped Mizaistom. He sighed.. “Botobai delivered the list, since he’s the one with connections to the Kakin government. Botobai isn’t an idiot.” 

“That’s the huge guy with the red face paint, right?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. I see. I saw him on the news. Hard to miss.”

“Very,” agreed Mizaistom. He cleared his throat in warning as Zepile’s efforts to dodge a meandering child on the sidewalk almost caused him to run into Mizaistom instead. Zepile winced in apology and moved ahead, ending the discussion.

Despite the excessively dressy and businesslike attire Mizaistom wore, where he and Zepile were headed wasn’t someplace especially formal. Zepile’s sandals alone attested to that much. After having openly confessed his fear that they’d have nothing whatsoever to talk about now that they weren’t hunting Kurapika together, Zepile had made the quaint suggestion that they catch up while visiting an art museum during free admission hours in the evening. If all else failed, they could simply stare at paintings politely for about an hour and separate on more cordial terms than if they’d been anywhere else and forced to confront the lack of common topics or shared interests between them. 

It was generous of Zepile to have framed this all as friendly meet up when it might have accidentally come off as more of a date. Neither of them dared to be the first to bring that interpretation up, however. So far, they’d only spoken on the phone twice since Mizaistom called to tell Zepile he’d been given his number, and Zepile pretended to believe Mizaistom had actually lost it in the first place. Today, as Zepile put it, they were meeting up for “old time’s sake”, nothing major. Zepile occasionally traveled to Swaldani City for business, and Mizaistom was working full-time at the Hunter Association Headquarters. It was only a matter of time before they’d end up in the same place, so, they might as well meet and catch up. It was the social, friendly thing to do.

As feared, the genial catching up phase of the encounter hit a roadblock almost immediately after the topic of Kakin had been exhausted. A long silence settled in on cue as Zepile and Mizaistom stood in line waiting to enter the museum. Mizaistom ignored the awkwardness at first, since he considered it rude to talk incessantly in lines anyway. Zepile, meanwhile, simply had nothing to say. He was unhappy with it, too, because it was different from how talkative he usually was. Something had changed in how he’d been able to relate to Mizaistom, to the point that even now, months after discovering if given the right circumstance  they could be more than just co-conspirators or friends, Zepile couldn’t bring himself to act totally normal. As much as he wanted to see Mizaistom as just someone he knew, he couldn’t fend off the what-if scenarios and speculations playing in the back of his mind, making him feel like an idiot who couldn’t control himself or approach a situation rationally once his ego got wind of the fact that he stood even the faintest hint of a chance with someone romantically.

And yet, in an ironic twist that, in hindsight looked more and more like simple self-sabotage, up until the moment he’d seen Mizaistom in person, Zepile hadn’t felt differently towards him at all. In theory he knew and remembered what Mizaistom had carelessly let slip in Baleno City, but the current Mizaistom had sounded so reassuringly impartial over the phone, and Zepile had allowed himself to be lulled into overconfidence. In the end, Zepile himself had been the one who’d pushed for them to meet up. He wasn’t sure if it was because he’d been annoyed at Mizaistom’s coldness, or relieved by it and willing to face him. All he knew was that, after insisting the invitation was sincere, he’d been surprised by how quickly Mizaistom had agreed. Based on what Leorio had told him, Zepile had expected him to be too busy to have any time.

“Have you ever been here before?” asked Zepile as he peeked between the pleats of the museum map without going through the hassle of unfolding it. “Know your way around?”

“Not really,” said Mizaistom. “I attended an event in the main hall once. One of my teams provided security for a painting while it was being shipped from Begerossé, so I was invited to the presentation party.”

“I see. Well, I’ve been here a few times, enough to know they don’t really change it around too much beyond the special exhibits. So, I guess I’ll lead the way?”

Mizaistom nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Okay.” Zepile glanced at the map one more time before folding it in half and sticking it into his back pocket. “So, they have some famous triptych altarpieces. The room over there to the left everyone’s making a beeline for has the famous painting of a knight on a snake-scaled elephant. That’s one of the biggest draws, obviously, but there’s some other famous stuff around that people either forget or only get around to later. There’s the Medusa of Eels, for example. Anything you want to see in particular?”

“No. I don’t know much about art. To me, it’s all the same.”

Zepile tsked disapprovingly. “Wow. It takes a lot of confidence to accept an invitation to an art museum and then openly admit you’re ignorant of the subject, Mizai.” 

“How so?”

“Most people would try to learn a little first to impress the person they’re with.”

“I thought you invited me because you know art.”

“Ah,” said Zepile. “Okay. You win. That makes sense. I did pick the venue. I guess I’ll just pick everything else, too, then. Let’s get moving.”

Pointing towards a stairway and gesturing for Mizaistom to follow, Zepile began thier tour along his usual route. He explained  as they went how he didn’t like to stay in the museum for more than an hour or so, since he felt the art fatigue a lot faster when he wasn’t buying or selling it. Over a long period of sporadic visits, he’d narrowed the museum’s offerings down to three or four he always made sure to see. After visiting these, he could leave the museum or linger on, depending on his mood. As long as he started out with a goal, it wouldn’t feel like he was wasting time.

The next thing he warned Mizaistom of was that most of his“must-see” artwork had nothing to do with him having an exceptional sense of taste, and the sequence in which he saw them wasn’t subjective to how much greater any one piece was compared to the others. They were simply a handful of commonly known works that happened to be convenient to visit in a specific order. The snake-scaled elephant painting downstairs was the undisputed main attraction. For that reason, he said in a conspiratorial tone, if you went straight to the top floor first, you basically had the place to yourself.

The bored security guards patrolling upstairs eyed Zepile and Mizaistom disinterestedly as they entered the quiet hall on the top floor of the museum. It’d be another ten or fifteen minutes after free admissions started before patrons would begin working their way upstairs in greater numbers. Zepile didn’t speak as he led the way to an entryway at the left of the staircase landing. The room beyond was full of nothing but altarpieces. Zepile stopped in front of the brightest and most detailed one, indicating it was something worth a look. Mizaistom, coming up behind him, admitted he recognized it. He’d seen this altarpiece used often as an example of world-wide religious art in history textbooks and documentaries throughout his life.

“Can you believe how small this all looks in person?” asked Zepile. “The elephant knight downstairs is as tall as three people and exactly as huge as you’d think from only seeing it in pictures. But, most stuff just looks super small in person.”

“It’s a common observation,” noted Mizaistom. He clasped his hands behind his back and stood square, prepared to remain there in front of the triptych for a while.

“Well, if it’s common, you should just agree with me, don’t you think?” said Zepile. “I’m indeed trying to say something relatable.”

“I know. I relate.”

Zepile narrowed his eyes, thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “This is going to be a very long evening, isn’t it?” 

Mizaistom looked away and didn’t answer.

Zepile made a quick circuit of the room, hardly stopping in front of anything for longer than a cursory glance. Mizaistom remained in place at the most famous piece. A minute later, Zepile was motioning for Mizaistom to follow him to the next connecting room, which had blue walls and several paintings of stern people Mizaistom didn’t recognize.

“Ah, here’s something horrible,” said Zepile as he went to a short, dark hall branching off from opposite side of one of the next rooms. Mizaistom, who’d paused to look around, walked faster to keep up. At the end of the short hall was a small, windowless, gray room, it’s furthest reaches almost black in the long shadows cast by the, focused lighting from the ceiling. Zepile waved towards one of the walls and made a disgusted sound as he took a seat at a bench.

“This dude only painted dying animals, especially horses and vouropatra. It’s something to do with transportation or domestication, since in his day everyday people used domesticated animals. He was really obsessed with working animals dying in accidents.”

“Enough people paint other human beings dying and suffering,” said Mizaistom as he walked slowly around the room Zepile was apparently sitting out on. “I guess it’s fair to extend that morbid fascination with suffering to the animals people have depended on.”

“Over there’s a famous one of a colt with a broken neck,” said Zepile, pointing to a painting that, for all its supposed fame, was unpretentiously tucked away in a corner and surrounded by other, equally monotone paintings. “The story is that it reared up while being trained to wear a halter or something, and it fell backwards in just the right way to break its neck. Baby horses are always jumping and running and falling, but this one actually gave itself a life terminating injury. And then, this dude decided to paint it, because by accidentally killing itself, the horse escaped the toil and grisly deaths of all the other animals in the paintings here.”

Despite the macabre surroundings and the grotesque figure of the injured colt in the painting, Mizaistom broke in to a small smile. He rested his chin in his hand as he faced the wall of paintings, but looked over to Zepile out of the corner of his eye. Mizaistom’s sudden amusement disconcerted Zepile.. 

“Did you look that up before coming here to sound impressive?” asked Mizaistom. Zepile paused in surprise, then grinned, relieved Mizaistom hadn’t been smiling over something weird, and laughed.

“Why?” he asked. “Are you impressed?”

“I guess it’s interesting.”

“It’s in the pamphlets they give out at the entrance with the maps, if you want to know the secret,” said Zepile. He reached into his pocket for his folded map, and slipped the smaller, accompanying guide out of it. He held it up for Mizaistom to see. “I read all about it once while I was taking a shit, and the gist of it stuck with me.”

“Well, then, I guess I’m impressed that you seem to have learned it by heart, given such circumstances,” said Mizaistom. Zepile held the pamphlet out to him, and Mizaistom took it. He turned it around and unfolded it, scanning the featured paintings and their blurbs until he found the one about the colt. As he read over what was written, Zepile got up and stood beside him.

“Let’s get out of this room and back out to the endless human paintings,” said Zepile. Mizaistom straightened his back as he felt Zepile’s hand settle between his shoulders and push him towards the door as he spoke. He had no choice but to go as directed, though he shrugged the hand off as he went. Zepile got the hint. With a notable measure of distance between them, he and Mizaistom re-entered the main hall.

Guests were trickling upstairs now in larger numbers than before. Mizaistom walked ahead a little as they went down to the opposite end of the hall.. He assumed Zepile had stopped to look at a painting of a woman in a long dress surrounded by blue flowers, but his En told him that this wasn’t the case; he was just walking slowly. Mizaistom picked an entryway at random and passed through, Zepile following at the same sluggish pace just behind. The gallery beyond was still mostly empty of people. Mizaistom stopped and waited, and at last, Zepile caught up.

“Museums must be annoying if you can see Nen,” said Zepile as they made a loop around the room. Mizaistom gave him a warning look, but it was unlikely anyone was in earshot. “Aura must be everywhere, right? The works here are pretty prestigious.”

“There’s a fair amount of aura,” admitted Mizaistom after a quick look around. “More than usual. However, I don’t have to see the aura around me all the time if I don’t want to. It doesn’t bother me.”

“But what if you had to fight someone in a museum?”

Mizaistom passed into the adjoining room without remembering a single painting in the one they’d just left. Zepile made it clear he was waiting for an actual answer, and Mizaistom forced himself to consider the highly undesirable scenario of having to fight someone in a museum.

“I would try not to,” said Mizaistom at last. “My first reaction would be to try to move the fight elsewhere. Otherwise, there might be a lot of damage.”

“Yeah, but if you didn’t have a choice? Would all the aura around here be distracting to you then?”

Mizaistom had to stop for a second to think about it. “No. Not really,” he concluded.

“No?”

“Artwork doesn’t move.”

“Ah! Good point. You’re right. It usually doesn’t.”

“But as I said, instead of the aura, it’s more likely I’d be distracted trying to keep the art from getting damaged.” Although it was a legitimate question on Zepile’s part, Mizaistom somehow felt a little silly for elaborating on a hypothetical situation he never expected to face. “Certainly that could put me at a disadvantage.”

“Of course,” agreed Zepile. “It’s the right thing to do, protect the art.”

“Yes, it is. But, that’s not all. Unless I can prove beyond a doubt that there was an immediate threat to the inhabitants of this city, I might end up partly liable for the damage.”

Zepile stopped dead and gaped at Mizaistom. “Do Hunters get sued for damages?” he asked, amazed and enthusiastic to learn more. “Can people actually do that?”

Mizaistom shrugged like it wasn’t really that unusual or even that big of a deal. “Hunters get sued all the time for everything,” he said. “We’re being sued right now for people getting kicked off a boat, you know.”

“Oh, yes. True.”

Zepile tactfully dropped the subject as a chattering group of retirees entered the room from the opposite doorway, all of them exchanging loud opinions amongst each other over the recent remodeling of several of the older exhibits. Their arrival heralded a surge in more guests, interrupting the illusion of privacy Zepile and Mizaistom had maintained so far. Zepile tapped Mizaistom on the arm and indicated they were leaving the current floor and moving down. They’d see the famous snake-scaled elephant on the way out, he told him. If Mizaistom didn’t know art, then there wasn’t much else to see.

The stream of visitors rushing in and out of entryways thinned slightly as Mizaistom and Zepile reached the ground floor. Forty-five minutes remained of the free admission period, so most were hurrying upstairs to catch other must-see pieces of art. Mizaistom and Zepile passed the entrance to the room with the knight on the snake-scaled elephant, and Mizaistom stuck his head in for a quick look without stepping inside. He agreed the painting was gigantic, but he felt no need to elbow through the lingering crowd to get to the front and see it up close. They could leave anytime, if this was the last thing, he said, but Zepile surprised him by announcing there was still one more thing he wanted to check out. Perhaps Mizaistom would find it intriguing as well, though the piece was small, and not at all famous.

The final gallery Zepile brought Mizaistom to was a small, somewhat abandoned looking room zero of their fellow museum-goers seemed too interested in. The few that passed by would glance inside, see Mizaistom and Zepile, and continue on without troubling to stop inside. Unlike the larger galleries upstairs, there weren’t any paintings or sculptures to draw the eye, but instead rows of glass displays full of sketches and drafts created by the same artist who’d painted the knight on the snake-scaled elephant. The centerpiece was a small collection of sketches and gathered resources related to the development of the famous snake-skinned elephant itself. Without even a glance, Zepile passed by these items and went directly to the opposite end of the room. He waved Mizaistom over and pointed out a sketch of a curly-haired dog among journal entries and other small sketches and scraps of paper. He lowered his voice to a whisper as he explained.

“Take a look at that,” said Zepile. Mizaistom got the impression he was supposed to be looking for aura, and he did so. The artist had been a master, so of course, everything in the room held traces of creative energy and Nen. The drawing Zepile had indicated was the most notably Nen-infused among the collection in its case. Mizaistom looked up and down the other cases nearby and realized this one sketch was also the most Nen-infused object in the entire room. In fact, it was nearly as bright and writhing with aura as the masterworks on display elsewhere in the museum. He nodded when he was done with his inspection, while in his chest something like a mild, deeply suspicious dread began to swell.

“That’s a fake,” said Zepile. “Based off a dog in the lap of an unnamed noblewoman whose portrait is on display at the national art museum in York Shin. In another painting, the same breed of dog is catching falling petals as a servant sets flowers and perfume in a noblewoman’s bath. That one’s also in York Shin. There’s even a line in the artist’s diary about drawing this sort of dog sometimes, since the artist owned one as a pet.”

Mizaistom stared down at the hastily scribbled dog more intently. “You don’t mean…,” he said and trailed off. He didn’t need to look at Zepile to know the answer.

“Because of the relevance of this dog in relation to the artist, when a lost collection of the artist’s personal notes was discovered, no-one questioned this specific drawing’s veracity.”

Mizaistom leaned back and cleared his throat. He watched Zepile accusingly.

“It wasn’t on purpose.”

“You sold counterfeit artwork to a museum.”

“I didn’t sell it to them myself. I was as surprised as anyone to see it here. I swear. I merely stopped by this exhibit on a whim one day, and there it was. Just...right there. As you see it now.”

“How did it get here?”

“My guess is it just got passed off as authentic long enough to make it this far, and then it got mixed in with the real stuff. I think it’s been in this collection for five years now.”

“Five years?”

“I’ve only known about it for two.”

“You’ve let this deception go on for two whole years?” asked Mizaistom, his voice rising. Zepile shushed him and pulled him aside, looking around to make sure they were alone. Everything about the reaction was ridiculous, since there was nowhere to really pull Mizaistom away to and no-one around to hear them anyway. In a low voice, Zepile explained, all the while reprimanding Mizaistom by waving a finger in his face whenever the look on his face became too critical.

“Now, look,” whispered Zepile. “I can’t exactly ask them for it back, can I? They might not even believe me that it’s fake. I can’t prove I drew it. They’ll just think I’m crazy. Not to mention it’ll look really damn suspicious.”

Mizaistom crossed his arms, his entire mood soured. “And so why are you telling me about this?” he asked. Zepile made a face and shrugged, like it was a mystery to him as much as Mizaistom at this point.

“I don’t know. It just seemed like a neat thing to know? I guess?”

“Do you want me to get it back? Maybe I could ask around and—”

“No,” interrupted Zepile. “You don’t have to. I’m not asking for help getting it back.”

“Then, what’s the point?”

“That you’re pretty much the only person who isn’t me who knows that this dog is fake…and that I drew it.”

“That’s it?”

“I mean. Yeah.”

Mizaistom took a deep breath, and the stiffness in his posture gradually, almost reluctantly, relaxed away. “Still, maybe I could ask…” he offered one more time.

Zepile dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand and let Mizaistom’s arm go. He headed back to the arched doorway by himself while Mizaistom hung back, taking a moment to think and scowl down at the offending drawing. He watched the aura shifting around what was essentially a fully-fledged work of art in its own right masquerading as a quick study done by a master painter planning even greater things. As he stared, he clenched his jaw, seeing that it wasn’t his skill in art where Zepile’s Nen had come from. A sketch of a dog wasn’t anywhere near the apex of artistic merit, no matter how great of an artistic genius had drawn it. No, undoubtedly it was the skill in counterfeiting that had endowed this work with aura, proof that Zepile really only used his Nen when making fakes and not when creating legitimate artwork.

As quickly as the infuriating realization had come to Mizaistom, his mood mellowed. He was stunned to see he didn’t care all that much about Zepile’s criminal past at the moment, even while he was staring down at pure evidence of it. For once, he even allowed himself to appreciate the ridiculousness of how far something so small had gotten. It’d developed its own life, its own history, once it’d left Zepile’s hands. Tracking this and other works must’ve been a near-impossible task for Zepile, considering his fakes were good enough to end up in the collections of national museums without him able to do anything about it. He wondered just how many counterfeits Zepile had left to find beyond this. How many of them had he found already? Had it been easy or difficult, and how long had it taken? Somehow, this information felt crucial, and yet, it wasn’t Mizaistom’s place to ask for details. He’d only ever used such information in the past as ammunition against Zepile after Zepile attempted to offer it himself in good faith. Worse, if Mizaistom learned too much now, he’d probably start unintentionally looking out for more counterfeits himself. He might never find one, but every time the thought of one crossed his mind, it’d double as a reminder.

“C’mon, Mizai, let’s beat the rush,” called Zepile back into the gallery. On cue, an announcement played throughout the halls warning guests that the museum would close in fifteen minutes. Mizaistom and Zepile crossed the lobby just as the same announcement ended. By the time the last fifteen minutes were up, the two of them had made it all the way down the tree-lined walkway running parallel to the museum and into downtown.

“Well, the exciting trip to the art museum is over,” said Zepile. He’d stopped at the mouth of a wide pedestrian street lined with restaurants and bars and gestured down it. “You want to get a drink, or do you have an early start tomorrow?”

“I’m technically working,” admitted Mizaistom, “but it’s mostly coordination and planning for different assignments, which I usually get done remotely.” 

Zepile nodded in mocking approval at this, taking it as a “yes” and turning to head down the street. “Must be nice to be the boss,” he said. “Can skip out whenever. Fun.”

“I’m not skipping out,” said Mizaistom, eager to correct him. “The company is run in such a way that I don’t need to physically be there for every little thing. Someone will contact me if I have to go in tomorrow. Otherwise, having a Two-star ranked Zodiac member, runner up for chairmen, and one of the most visible Dark Continent expedition leaders and Hunter Association representatives just sort of hanging around the office...it makes people anxious, and productivity lags.”

Zepile sneered as he side-stepped around a puddle of unascertainable contents near a particularly loud cafe-bar. “Are people scared of you or something?” he asked, ready to laugh if Mizaistom tried to deny it.

“Intimidated is a better word.”

“Do they have a reason to be?”

“Not really.”

“Is that just a diplomatic way of saying ‘yes they do, they totally do’?”

Mizaistom conceded this wasn’t wrong by looking away and making a face. Zepile grinned wider. “It’s like you always say,” said Mizaistom. “No-one really likes to work with Hunters. You would know that firsthand.”

“Oh yeah, but, well, about that. See, I’ve changed my mind.” 

“Really?”

“In the end, even that Linsen guy wasn’t all that bad, and Basho was the chilliest dude I’ve ever known for an hour and a half. Even you aren’t so terrible, and you outrank every other Hunter I’ve met, which I’m going to blindly assume makes you the worst one of the lot.”

“I’m not sure rank would correlate….”

“Oh, hey look, this place always has some good offers,” interrupted Zepile. He picked up the pace to cut around a tightly packed group blocking the signboard, forcing Mizaistom to stop talking in order to keep up. 

“Forget it. It’s too crowded,” said Zepile, turning away after a quick look inside. “What’s the point of getting a drink if we have to shout over the noise? We should try someplace a little further from the center of town. The congestion here is ridiculous. You okay with a little walking?”

“Yes,” said Mizaistom. He buttoned his jacket against a cold wind that struck them as they turned the next corner. Though the weather was warming up overall, the temperature plummeted when the sun when down. Mizaistom remembered the sandals Zepile was wearing. Covertly, he tried to get a good look at Zepile’s face, hoping he’d catch some sign of discomfort that would make him feel vindicated in his disapproval of Zepile’s unseasonal choice of footwear. Disappointingly, Zepile was the same as ever.

Mizaistom pursed his lips. On second thought, that wasn’t all true. Maybe Zepile wasn’t cold, but it couldn't be said he was “the same as ever”. After a good, long look, Mizaistom concluded that without the weight of the mission on his shoulders, Zepile’s neutral expression was much more easy-going than what Mizaistom had previously considered typical. The look in his eyes was as sharp and calculating as ever, but this was more indicative of someone with a shrewd disposition than a sign of anyone Mizaistom had to be on his guard against. Whatever disconcerting or suspicious aspect Zepile had worn before was mostly gone, replaced by a face that was merely familiar to Mizaistom. The absence of distrust and wariness made Mizaistom a little uneasy, but with himself, not Zepile.

It was only after making their way several blocks deeper into the heart of downtown that Zepile thought to ask if Mizaistom might be hungry after heading over to meet him directly after work. Mizaistom lied that he’d eaten earlier, unwilling to admit he hadn’t had much of an appetite the entire day. Zepile didn’t force him to prove it, but Mizaistom caught the hint of an incredulous brow arching up ever-so-slightly question.

“Let’s catch up for real,” suggested Zepile when they were finally seated at a table outside a bar where he could smoke with relative impunity. Mizaistom didn’t know what Zepile meant by them not having caught up “for real” yet, nor could he guess whatever Zepile might propose to fix the problem. The two of them had already spoken over the phone about what they were currently doing for work, along with quick summaries of what they been up to in the interim since parting ways in Baleno City. Mizaistom couldn’t imagine what else they had left to go over.

“Where’s the cow?” asked Zepile first. It took Mizaistom a moment too long to understand he was talking the the sculpture he’d left behind in the hotel.

“Oh. It’s…uh….”

“You lost it?”

“No. It’s at my office. It’s not lost.”

“Really? And you didn’t bring it along to give it back to me?” asked Zepile. He watched Mizaistom curiously as he brought his cigarette up to his lips but didn’t breathe in. “That’s a surprise,” he said. There was something strange in his tone that made Mizaistom defensive, and he began to toy with his earring distractedly as he spoke.

“Why would I have brought it along?” he asked. “You didn’t ask for it, and anyway, I was in court all day. I didn’t think about it, that you might’ve been expecting to get it back now. I’m sorry if you were. You can pick it up tomorrow if you’re still in town, or we can get it now if it’s extremely urgent.”

A few flecks of ash drifted from the end Zepile’s cigarette as he made a looping, unconcerned gesture with his right hand. “No, no, it’s okay,” he said. He noticed Mizaistom watching the ash fall and leaned away to knock the cigarette against the arm of his chair at the point farthest from him. “I think I would’ve felt kind of bad if you’d brought it, to be honest.”

“Why?”

“It would’ve been harder to tell you to hold onto it a little longer for me. In fact, it’s better that you even kind of see it as yours now, since you have it in your office and all that.”

“I don’t see it as mine at all. I see it as I’m holding on to it for you until you want it back.”

“But you didn’t assume that’d be today?”

“You never said anything.”

Zepile was on the cusp of a quick response, but stopped and laughed to himself instead. He didn’t want to waste his cigarette, so he watched Mizaistom out of the corner of his eye and smoked for a little while in silence. At last, he spoke again.

“But didn’t you consider,” said Zepile, pointing towards Mizaistom with the last bit of cigarette between his ring and pinky fingers, “that as long as you have that sculpture, as long as you are holding on to it, that you and I are never quite done with each other?” 

“What do you mean?”

“You could’ve elected to bring it along yourself and hand it over to get me out of your hair, casting off all responsibility for looking after my poor artwork and eliminating anything that might keep us in touch.”

“Hm,” grunted Mizaistom, betraying a touch of impatience and the absolute truth that such a thing had actually never crossed his mind. “I didn’t think that far into it,” he said. “Why would I?”

“You would’ve if you’d wanted me gone.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Mizaistom. He shifted in his seat and picked up his drink so he’d stop twisting his earring around so much. He looked around at the other patrons without seeing anything at all.

“It’s a relief you aren’t just putting up with me right now for the sake of offloading the cow and fulfilling your final obligation. It’s like you genuinely chose to be here.”

“Who do you even think I am?” snapped Mizaistom, offended Zepile would’ve thought the worst. Zepile startled slightly at his tone. “I don’t go around in my free time doing things I don’t want to with people I can’t stand. Why wouldn’t I choose to be here?”

“You know why.”

“I don’t.”

Zepile pulled over the ashtray and put out his dying cigarette. “Okay,” he said doubtfully, “well, maybe it wasn’t a big deal to you, but I remember you accidentally told me that I’m your type, your ‘unprofessional thoughts’ kind of type, and then you turned beet-red and stupid, and I graciously haven’t brought it up since.”

Mizaistom groaned at the reminder and regretted holding his drink, because it was much harder to hide his face behind his hand when there was a glass in it. “You have to bring that up?” he asked. “Now?”

“I have to. It’s kind of the elephant in the room, right?”

“Well,” said Mizaistom. “I’m not going to avoid you just because of some problem of mine beyond your control. I don’t go around blaming other people for my own…” Mizaistom didn’t want to call them feelings outright so he grasped around for a better word, “… _thoughts_.”

“In my case, I’ve totally blamed you, though,” said Zepile. The mocking laughter in his voice was gone. He hardly sounded like himself. Dread sank down into Mizaistom’s stomach as he allowed Zepile to explain. “It’s your fault, you know. I told you that if I even get a hint that I have a chance, I’m prone to making highly regrettable choices. Remember? And after I said that, you immediately proceeded to give me a hint. Like an asshole.” 

“It wasn’t my intention. I don’t remember why I said anything. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I believe you that you weren’t.”

“I apologize for that, though I know giving an apology this late isn’t very helpful. Don’t worry about it, though. There’s no problem now.”

“So you’re over it?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Just like that?”

“It wasn’t ‘just like that’. You know it wasn’t. I figured over the past few months that you were giving me space and time to get over whatever was going on.”

“I..I mean, I _was_ , but it hurts my feelings a little to see it worked so well.”

Mizaistom couldn’t tell if was supposed to apologize for this, too. Before he could stammer out the first vague, diplomatic response that came to mind, Zepile spoke up, saving him.. “Nevermind,” he said. “Maybe my pride was secretly hoping you’d bring the cow sculpture along. At least if you had, I’d have known you were struggling to make a choice and needed to impose a distance. That would’ve been a good ego boost. But no, you’ve recovered completely, and the sculpture never even crossed your mind. Shit. Good for you. I’d compliment that, but then, Nen is ruled by willpower and resolve, and so you’ve had practice. This kind of thing must be easy for you. You make a decision. You follow through. Easy.”

Mizaistom’s first instinct was to argue that Zepile was assuming too much without hearing Mizaistom out. At the same time, he didn’t have much to say for himself. All he could do was point out that he’d never said he’d stopped thinking of Zepile in the anxious, overly attached way he’d come to view with such trepidation and misgivings while they’d been working together. The feeling of awkwardness was still right there, right now, in his short answers and abrupt silences. The problem was that it wasn’t the time. 

Mizaistom took a long sip of his drink, the first of the two of them to do so. Zepile copied him, but drank more. 

“I’ll admit it’s been a little easy, but not because my resolve is so much better than anyone else’s,” said Mizaistom. “Since the upcoming expedition to the Dark Continent was first announced, I’ve been preparing with team leaders at my company for the statistically significant chance that I won’t return from the trip. So, yes, it’s been easier—though not outright _easy_ —to make up my mind on lots of things and follow through.”

The bar patrons around them seemed to grow louder, more obnoxious with their shouting and laughter and boisterous activity. It was hard to hear everything Mizaistom was saying, and yet it was impossible not to understand. Zepile’s offended pride shrank after this much-needed dose of perspective, but it didn’t leave him entirely.

“On TV they always imply the Kakin Empire had some kind of power or inside information that made them decide it was okay to send thousands of people to settle the Dark Continent,” said Zepile. He was frowning into his glass as he spoke, like he didn’t like the taste. “Are you telling me that that’s not the case, and that the trip is still just as dangerous as people say? Are all those passengers, thousands of people, signing up to die?” 

Mizaistom made a point of stopping to look around at the clusters of people tucked in around nearby tables and huddled in groups on the sidewalk. “If the King of Kakin has any special insight that the rest of the world doesn’t, he hasn’t yet shared it with the Hunter Association. That’s all I can say. It’s a complicated mission with many factors at play.”

Zepile stared at him. “But you’re still going to go?”

“The other Zodiacs and I would all have gone, anyway,” said Mizaistom. “Kakin expedition or not. We’re Hunters.”

“And you want to? You actually want to?”

“I have a roll to play. It’s a historical event.”

“But you’re not worried?”

“I am, realistically. But, no matter the statistics, a Hunter must be confident in themselves, that they can survive this sort of thing. Logically, I know what the greatest potential outcome will be for me and everyone else involved. But…it’s hard to say. It’s just that, well, for me…all that logic and evidence isn’t enough to stop me.”

Zepile had been growing more and more taciturn since Mizaistom had first brought up the Dark Continent expedition. Now, he lapsed into absolute silence, unable to think of another question to ask, or rather, unable to face another answer he wouldn’t like.

“Well, this sucks,” said Zepile after a long while. “Leorio’s going, too. Everyone’s going. All you Hunters are hyped up for Dark Continent. I guess I don’t get it because I’m not one of you.”

“Not every Hunter in the world is going.”

Zepile shrugged and finished his drink. He set the glass down without looking up for the waiter and sat back hard enough to make his plastic chair teeter back slightly. He was uninterested in ordering anything else. Even the energy to light a cigarette was more than he could expend at the moment. All he did instead was stare at the table without expression, caught somewhere between an intense and overwhelming thoughtfulness and the complete inability to think of anything at all.

“I’ll never even become a Hunter if you and Leorio get yourselves killed,” said Zepile after Mizaistom had set his own unfinished drink back on the table and cleared his throat.

“That isn’t true,” said Mizaistom, chiding him almost warmly, though it didn’t seem to fit the mood. “If you truly want to be a Hunter, it won’t matter what happens to us. You’ll find a way.”

“Yeah. Find a way,” scoffed Zepile. “Because what I desperately need in my life is to get to know even more Hunters. I love having friends who will either get killed or try to at some point in the span of me knowing them.”

Mizaistom hesitated, doubting whether he should bring the point up or not. “Are you any different?” he asked. “Really?”

Zepile’s brow furrowed deeply, and he pursed his lips. He had no idea what Mizaistom was talking about. 

“Borrowing from underground banks that make you put up organs as collateral isn’t exactly risk-free,” said Mizaistom. He shrugged. “Along with a few other ways you’ve endangered yourself to make money.”

“That’s different,” said Zepile. “I never borrow more than I need and know that I can make back. I’m not totally careless. I plan everything out beforehand. And, really, it’s not like I do that kind of stuff every single time I need money. If time isn’t a factor, I just take a temporary job somewhere and save up the old-fashion way. No counterfeits, no criminal organizations, everything above board.”

“In that case, if your relative safety is such a guarantee, then, why don’t you tell your friends about the risks you’ve taken for their sakes? Why haven’t you told Leorio? Or Gon?”

“No point to. Gon wouldn’t care. Other people, especially Leorio, worry needlessly about minor things, no matter how well you explain it….”

“I wouldn’t see it as needless worry. Weren’t you in the hospital for three days because of a misunderstanding between you and a bank once?”

“Well, I mean…. I told you it was all okay in the end.”

“It didn’t have to be okay in the end. It could’ve been much, much worse.”

Zepile rolled his eyes, throwing his head back as well for better emphasis. “I get it,” he groaned. “I recklessly endangered myself for a quick boost in capital. Yes. I know. And _you’re_ saying,” here he looked Mizaistom in the eye, even going as far as to point, “that _that _means I’m just as bad as a Hunter who travels to a wild, untamed continent with royals and Kakin colonists for kicks to chase after, I don’t know, dinosaurs and mythical beasts and monsters that are more fun than the boring ones we’ve already got here in spades in the normal world.”__

____

“Well, so, compared to a Hunter, maybe you’re not ‘just as bad’,” agreed Mizaistom, “but still, you’re not great.”

____

The sneer on Zepile face stretched wide into a wry grin. He laughed, shaking his head and occasionally looking over at Mizaistom like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Well, I guess I have no choice but to become a Hunter, then,” he said. Though Zepile was being sarcastic, Mizaistom was absolutely serious.

____

“You should. After a few years of training, it’s absolutely possible. And I’m not just saying you stand a chance. You can pass.”

____

Zepile kept on shaking his head in disbelief. “Well then, don’t die on your trip,” he said. “That’s my condition, if we’re going to plan for theoretical futures that have a statistically significant chance of never happening: You’ll have to train me. Or else I won’t become a Hunter at all.”

____

Surprisingly, Mizaistom chuckled, which earned him a victorious grin from Zepile. “There are a multitude of reasons to become a Hunter, but only about one or two reasons not to,” explained Mizaistom. “But this is the first time I’ve ever heard someone say they _won’t_ become a Hunter unless a condition is met.”

____

“And I mean it,” said Zepile. It was impossible to know if Zepile did, in fact, actually mean it, but for Mizaistom it was neither here nor there.

____

“How about this?” said Mizaistom. “I’ll never give you the cow back.”

____

“Good. Keep it.”

____

“No, I mean that you’ll get it back when you ask for it, not a day earlier. I promise. I’m not in any hurry to get it back to you if you’re not in a hurry to have it back. And anyway, needless to say but it matches my aesthetic. Fits right in on the shelf in my office. No-one who sees it even bats an eye.”

____

A slower smile spread across Zepile’s face, smaller than the mocking or laughing one he normally wore, but more sincere. Then, he picked up his glass, waved down a waiter, and ordered a second drink, swearing to Mizaistom’s questioning brow that he’d stop at two. Mizaistom quickly finished his own drink and ordered another as well, before Zepile’s glass was taken away.

____

“We can’t both get drunk, Mizai,” Zepile warned him. “Or we’re fucked.”

____

“I live nearby. It’s fine.”

____

“Around here? Really?” asked Zepile. He looked around appreciatively, but it was too dark to see much. “Well, I guess it’s a good neighborhood north of the museums. Rich. Sophisticated. You can afford it.”

____

“I live more towards the edge of the neighborhood, closer to headquarters. The Hunter Association subsidizes part of the living expenses for members forced to reside in Swaldani City for work. The trade off is you have to live within a certain distance from the main building.”

____

“Are we that close to the Hunter Association headquarters right now? My mental map of the city isn’t great. All the buildings around here look the same.”

____

“Not really, no. We’re maybe twenty minutes walking.”

____

“And your apartment, then? How close is that?”

____

“Around six minutes.”

____

“Interesting,” muttered Zepile, trying and succeeding at sounding totally suspicious. Louder, he asked, “Do you know this bar we’re at now?”

____

“Yes.”

____

“Have you ever been forced to find your way back home from this bar after drinking?”

____

“No.”

____

“Could you?”

____

“I don’t plan to drink enough tonight for that to be a problem.”

____

“You must really like looking after me, then, huh?”

____

Mizaistom offered a thin, quick, uncertain smile before focusing his attention on the waiter arriving with the second round. The waiter nodded to Mizaistom with special familiarity as he set the glasses down. By now, Zepile had noticed most people seemed to have a vague idea who Mizaistom was after getting a good look. It made sense with the Hunter Association around that residents would have a passing knowledge of the organization’s most famous members, particularly those who showed up on the news as occasional spokespeople for the Hunter Association itself.

____

“And where are you staying?” asked Mizaistom once they’d been left alone again.

____

“Hotel near the Sqelini Station.”

____

“That’s all the way across town. Are you traveling by train to York Shin when you leave?”

____

“I’ll be headed in that direction.”

____

“Are you leaving tomorrow?”

____

“No. I only just got here this morning.”

____

“Do you have a lot of work?”

____

“No, not if I don’t want to. The market I’m in town for isn’t until Thursday. Then I’ll be busy, but….”

____

A commotion near the door into the bar, two men exclaiming differing opinions on the motives of a local political party neither supported, interrupted Zepile and the rest of the chatter and laughter of those sitting outside. When they noticed the stir they’d caused, the two men drew closer, lowering their voices as they continued to debate the topic with unwavering furor but considerably less volume. Zepile stared a little longer with the rest of the crowd before turning back to see Mizaistom watching him and not the scene at the door. Instead of looking away with Zepile noticed, Mizaistom just shrugged and drank.

____

“Six minutes is a lot shorter than a forty-five minute walk,” said Zepile. “No fair. Way closer than my hotel.”

____

Mizaistom nodded knowingly. “Plus, it’s unsafe around Sqelini Station at night,” he said. “Muggings, breaking into cars. Syringes and broken glass and debris on the ground. Imagine, you wearing sandals, walking around the area in the dark. An accident waiting to happen.”

____

“That perilous, huh? Are you going to be my bodyguard on the way back to my hotel, then? Protect me from muggings and stray needles?”

____

“Of course not. You couldn’t afford even half an hour of my time.” 

____

“You’d _charge me_?”

____

“You should just stay at my place, instead.”

____

“I should just call Leorio and crash on his couch.”

____

“He’s past headquarters, closer to the hospital than the museums. Barely closer than your hotel.”

____

“Well then, I guess there’s no choice.”

____

“In seriousness, my apartment has two rooms. I sometimes host my pupils and colleagues there. Right now, the spare room is free.”

____

“Thanks, but I was going to say ‘no choice but to walk all the way to Leorio’s’.”

____

“No, you weren’t. Let’s go.”

____

In a flash, Mizaistom finished his drink, which he reminded Zepile was only sparkling water after Zepile pretended to gasp in alarm. Mizaistom stood up, and Zepile, after discovering Mizaistom had already paid behind his back through his mysterious exchanging of glances with the waiter, got up from the table as well. He left the last quarter of his drink behind, wasted, in revenge for not getting to pay his own tab like an adult. Before they left, however, he swore and ran back to finish it. He blamed Mizaistom when the last gulp went down the wrong pipe and he crumpled in a coughing fit, earning the stares of all nearby and an exasperated look from Mizaistom, who’d already been in the process of crossing his arms the moment Zepile had turned around.

____

Unlike the bustling center of town, the streets on the way to Mizaistom’s apartment were wide and mostly empty, lined with closed luxury shops and locked doors that lead into hidden courtyards and empty foyers. Mizaistom’s own building had a wide hall past the heavy, street-level door. It was the bricked over and remodeled remains of a carriageway with just enough of the original structure left behind to hint at the history of the space. Their footsteps echoed back in the emptiness, though a light above a small guardroom revealed a night watchman who nodded to Mizaistom in greeting. He greeted Zepile the same in turn, but with less interest, his eyes already darting back down to his phone.

____

Zepile didn’t dare break the silence that had followed them from the vacant street and up the elevator to the top floor. He felt like a child being led around by an adult someplace he’d never seen before and would never be permitted to go to by himself, like to the teacher’s workroom behind the counter in the front office at school, or inside a locked storage closet where the most expensive gym equipment was stored away when not in use. When Mizaistom held open the apartment door so Zepile could pass and he could lock it behind them, Zepile was struck simultaneously with both the rush of curiosity to explore everything he could, and the odd sensation that he was somehow trespassing despite having been invited. 

____

“Where do I go?” asked Zepile in a low voice, not taking a single step forward in the dark entrance hall once he’d cleared the doorway. Mizaistom watched him, bemused, as he reached over to flick on the light.

____

“You don’t have to whisper,” said Mizaistom normally. “I don’t have neighbors. This apartment goes around the entire floor. There’s an office, two bedrooms, and a library, along with the obvious dining and living areas.”

____

“You have a library?” asked Zepile, making a face. “Who has a library in their home in this century?”

____

“It’s mostly references. Sort of a reading room. My students use it more than I do. And sometimes, when I or one of my colleagues does an interview, the pictures for the article are taken there, since it looks more prestigious.”

____

“I bet it does,” said Zepile. “Books will do that.”

____

Despite having a good eye for valuable furnishings and decorations, Zepile didn’t notice a thing as he was led down the hall. Ahead of him, Mizaistom had gone into auto-pilot, explaining what Zepile could eat, where the guest bathroom was, in which drawers and cabinets he could find towels and toiletries, and a whole litany of similar details someone who often hosted visitors knew to point out. Zepile was hardly listening, which was something he knew he’d regret later if he ended up needing anything, but he couldn’t focus when the mere fact of where he was and who he was with was drowning everything else out. The normalcy in which Mizaistom spoke felt affected, even forced. Zepile didn’t know who Mizaistom thought he was fooling, because it wasn’t Zepile, and it definitely wasn’t Mizaistom himself.

____

And yet, despite all the seemingly obvious signs, Zepile refrained from acting, held back by the ordinary and yet achingly persuasive fear of being wrong. 

____

“And if you want to take a shower before bed or later in the morning, there’s a robe and slippers in the closet. If you encounter any problems, my room is that doorway at the end of the hall. I keep it opened part of the way, so, don’t worry about coming to me for whatever you might need.”

____

Zepile nodded, burying his hands in his pockets and inclining away from Mizaistom. “You’re a perfect host,” he said. “I have no choice but to be a good guest. Hopefully, I won’t have to bother you for anything.” He nodded his head towards the door to the guest room. “So, I guess I’ll, uh, turn in,” he said. “‘Night, then.”

____

Of course Mizaistom wished the same sentiment back, but Zepile hadn’t heard it. He’d retreated to the guest room as quickly as he could the moment he was done speaking. Mizaistom watched him scurry and shrugged before heading down the hall to his own room to shower and get ready for bed. He wasn’t tired enough to sleep yet, so he brought a book with him and kept his bedside lamp on to read. He noticed that Zepile was being awfully quiet at his end of the hall. This became more pronounced as he read. For a moment, he thought Zepile had left while he’d been in the shower, but, almost as soon as the thought had occurred to him, his En detected the vaguest sensation of movement in the direction of Zepile’s room.

____

As matter of fact, Zepile had been doing nothing but laying in place for the past several minutes at the foot of the guest bed, his feet planted on the floor. He’d been listening to Mizaistom and staring out the open door to the hall. He noted that the light in Mizaistom’s room hadn’t gone out yet. He knew Mizaistom had to be reading. There’d been the muffled sound of pages turning as a book had been opened. After several minutes of listening and waiting and seeing the light staying on longer and longer, Zepile got up from the bed and left the room. Instead of going left towards the toilet, he went right, towards the crack of light of Mizaistom’s partly opened door.

____

“Hey,” said Zepile in the doorway. Mizaistom, staring down intently at the book in his lap, didn’t look over, but he reached out and pulled away the covers from the side of the bed next to him.

____

“Either take a shower or at least wash your feet before you get in, and give me five minutes to finish this section.”

____

“In your en suite or the bathroom down the hall?”

____

“I don’t care which.”

____

“Alright, I’ll be back,” said Zepile, leaving the door wide open behind him as he went. Mizaistom stole a quick glance as he walked away, and then stared back at his book, instantly forgetting how to read.

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some quick thank-you's:
> 
> Thank you all, the readers, sticking to the end with this strange pairing. I hope you enjoyed the fic in the end. I commend you all your willingness to just "go with it" when I roll up to the AO3 proposing Mizai/Zepile to you, and it wasn't even a crack fic. If you got this far, I'm so grateful.
> 
> Thanks also the coordinators of the HXHBB18, of course, and thanks to my artists for the event, who didn't let me down and delivered great work for this fic. (Links to their art is on the first chapter's notes, so if you haven't seen it, check it out! It's great!)
> 
> Finally, thanks to my beta for this fic, [spritepipis](http://spritepipis.tumblr.com)! I made her wait months for this last chapter, because I was so lazy about finishing it. I only made all of the readers wait an extra week. Betas suffer more than you know.


End file.
